A ROUND TABLE 




OF THE REPRESENTATIVE 


AMERICAN CATHOLIC NOVELISTS 


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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

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ChapTEZj- Copyright No._ | 

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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 





















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A ROUND TABLE 

OF THE 

REPRESENTATIVE 
AMERICAN CATHOLIC NOVELISTS. 




A ROUND TABLE 

1 


OF THE 

REPRESENTATIVE 


AMERICAN CATHOLIC NOVELISTS, 


At which is Served a Feast of Excellent Stories 
by 


ELEANOR C. DONNELLY, 
ANNA HANSON DORSEY, 
ELLA LORAINE DORSEY, 
MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN, 
FRANCIS J. FINN, S.j., 


WALTER L,ECKY, ' 

CHRISTIAN REID, . u 

ANNA T. SADLIER, 

MARY A. SADLIER, 

JOHN TALBOT SMITH, 


CHARLES WARREN STODDARD. 


With Tor traits, "Biographical Sketches , and "Bibliography. 


$ 


(/A 

New York, Cincinnati, Chicago: 
BENZIGER BROTHERS, 

Printers to the Holy Apostolic See. 

1897 



Copyright, 1896, by Benziger Brothers. 


Contents 


A Lost Prima Donna, .... 

PAGE 

Eleanor C. Donnelly 9 

The Mad Penitent of Todi, 

Anna Hanson Dorsey 53 

Speculum Justitiae. 

Ella Loraine Dorsey 99 


How Perseus Became a Star, . Maurice Francis Egan 123 


My Strange Friend, .... 

Francis J. Finn } S.J. 153 

Gilliman Ogley. 


In the Quebrada,. 


Shan Dempsey's Story. 


Mistress Rosamond Trevor, . . 

. . Anna T. Sadlier 275 

The Baron of Cherubusco, . . 

. John Talbot Smith 307 


Joe of Lahaina, . Charles Warren Stoddard 339 












ELEANOR C. DONNELLY. 

Eleanor Cecilia Donnelly is a native of Philadelphia, 
where her father, Dr. Philip Carroll Donnelly, died when 
she was a mere infant. Dr. Donnelly was of Irish 
birth, but his wife, Catharine Gavin Donnelly, was born in 
Philadelphia, and when her husband early fell a martyr to 
his profession, upon her devolved the exclusive rearing and 
training of her seven fatherless children. Her natural abilities 
peculiarly fitted her for this labor of love ; and she lived to 
reap the harvest of her toils in the varied and carefully cul¬ 
tivated talents of her offspring. Her daughter Eleanor 















began to write and publish poetry before she was out of her 
pinafores; and her life has been devoted to the elevation 
and extension of the cause of Catholic literature. 

Besides being a constant contributor to current literature, 
Miss Donnelly has published some dozen volumes of poems. 
Her “ Life of Father Barbelin, S.J.," won from the press 
most flattering comment; and she has excelled in religious 
compilations, such as “ Liguori Leaflets,” “Pearls from the 
Casket of the Sacred Heart," “ Our Birthday Bouquet.” 
and “ Little Compliments of the Season.” Her latest 
works have been: “Poems,” “Petronilla and other Stories,” 
“A Tuscan Magdalen and other Legends and Poems,” 
“Amy’s Music Box,” and “The Lost Christmas Tree.” 
It is claimed that one of Eleanor Donnelly’s poems, 
“The Vision of the Monk Gabriel," furnished Mr. Long¬ 
fellow with the theme of his “ Legend Beautiful," written 
eight years later. 

Miss Donnelly has represented Catholic literature on all 
occasions of national interest wherein women have figured 
during the past ten years. She was selected to compose 
the “ Odes” for the Golden Jubilee of both the Priesthood 
and Episcopacy of His Holiness Pope Leo XIII., receiving 
in return the Papal benediction. It was her pen that was 
selected by the American Catholic Historical Society, of 
which she is a valued member, to prepare an “ Ode” for 
the Philadelphia commemoration of the adoption of our 
National Constitution, as also the Columbian • 1 Ode ’ ’ for her 
native city’s celebration of the quadri-centennial of the 
discovery of America. 


B Xost lprinta Donna. 

S 

BY ELEANOR C. DONNELLY. 


I. 

“ Once again,” said the Italian maestro; and the 
clear, flexible young voice ran up one of Rossini’s 
most difficult cadenzas (around which clustered 
curious combinations of notes, like bunches of roses 
around a healthy stalk), trilled, like a lark, upon 
h\gh.Do y and came down the scale with a clean and 
elegant finish refreshing to hear. 

“Good!” said the sententious master; “that 
will do for to-day.” 

His English was excellent, but he might have 
said “ for this evening,” for the twilight had fallen 
an hour before, and the lights were burning red 
against the windows that shut out the dark night. 
Quite a cheery contrast to the outside gloom was 
that warm, bright spot, small as it was, and up 
three pair of stairs. The open fire was reflected in 
the polished floor, as in a mirror; there were pretty 
rosewood desks scattered around, filled with valu¬ 
able music; and a vase of heliotrope on the grand 
9 


IO 


A LOST PE IMA DONNA. 


Erard; while the high ceiling and the dark panel- 
ings of the walls gave an air of foreign elegance to 
all. 

The young singer sighed as she closed her 
solfeggi , gathered up the rest of her music in 
silence, and began to draw on her gloves. She was 
a girl of twenty or so, in an Astrachan cap and 
rather an old-fashioned dress; her well-worn pelisse 
being by far too scanty to protect her against the 
inclemency of a raw November night. But her 
form was slight and lissome; and a glance at her 
face made one forget the details of her toilet. It 
was such an odd face, more remarkable for its force 
of character than for any actual beauty of feature 
or complexion. The latter was neither fair nor 
delicate; and her hair, which she wore very simply, 
was of a neutral brown. But the piercing gray eyes 
were softened by the longest and silkiest of lashes, 
and when a word or a smile broke up the almost 
severe repose of her face, the expression was singu¬ 
larly sweet, and the firm chin revealed a girlish 
dimple. 

The master had subsided into playing minor 
chords with his velvety touch, and seemed to have 
forgotten her presence altogether. She glanced 
furtively at him through her long lashes. He was 
in the prime of life, and strikingly handsome; a 
tall, willowy presence in a faultless costume, per¬ 
fectly composed and graceful in every movement. 
His skin was a dark olive, lighted up by a pair of 
wonderful eyes that glowed at times, like burning 


ELEANOR C. DONNELLY. 


II 


coals, under his finely-arched brows; but his habitual 
expression was an arbitrary one. Albeit he wore 
his black, curling hair parted in the middle, in true 
artist mode, no thought of weakness or womanliness 
could attach itself to the manly face it framed. 

The last of her glove buttons disposed of, the 
young lady picked up her leather rouleau. On it 
was printed in tiny letters, “ Marguerite Don Ivan” 
She balanced it in her hands and walked to the 
door, then hesitated, turned back, and spoke with 
a certain nervous timidity: 

“You have not told me the hour of the train, 
Mr. Cellini ?” 

No answer. The minor chords had melted by 
degrees into the intricacies of a classical sonata; 
and the master’s impressive profile showed en 
silhouette against a dark panel beyond. She tried 
it again, a little louder, and with more formality: 

“ May I ask, Mr. Cellini, the hour of the train 
to-morrow ? ” 

“ What train ? ” questioned the gentleman ab¬ 
sently. 

The young girl bit her lip in discomfiture: “ The 
train that is to take us to Washington to-morrow, 
sir. Have you forgotten the concert ? ” 

“True!” said Mr. Cellini, still playing; and 
there was a silence of full five minutes more, which 
brought him to the end of the adagio. Then, with¬ 
out even a glance over his shoulder : “ We leave 
the Baltimore depot in the morning at eight,” he 
said briefly, and went on with his allegro . 


12 


A LOST PRIM A DONNA. 


“ Maestro ! ” said the young singer, coming a step 
nearer, with her heart in her eyes ; “ please, let me 
sing the Bolero at the concert, instead of that poor 
little ballad.” 

The master dropped his long, slender hands upon 
his knees, and wheeled round upon his stool; 
her heart beat faster and her color deepened at 
the expression of his face. 

“ The Bolero! ” he said slowly, and then he 
laughed a short, mellow laugh. “ The Bolero from 
the ‘ Sicilian Vespers' ?" and he laughed again, 
eyes and teeth lighting up his dark face as with a 
flash of sunshine. “ Miss Don Ivan, you are jest¬ 
ing.” 

“ I am in sober earnest;” and her face glowed. 
“ I know I could do it justice. I have practised 
it day and night for a week, and Miss Lightwood 
says I do it like a bird.” 

“ Miss Lightwood is a—goose,” said the master, 
“ and that also is a bird.” 

He was standing now, with folded arms, looking 
at her across the music desk, the amused smile still 
upon his face. 

“ But you will admit that she is a musician, that 
she travelled in Europe, and heard the best prima 
donni in the world ? Oh, Mr. Cellini!” cried the 
girl excitedly, clasping her hands and with a red 
flame burning in her cheeks; “ say I may do the 
Bolero instead of that paltry Robin Adair , and I 
shall be forever grateful. If you will but trust me, 
you will yet have reason to be proud of your pupil. 


ELEANOR C. DONNELLY. 


n 


I feel within me the power to be a great singer. I 

have that within which—which-” 

Passeth show! ’ ” added he; and the amused 
smile became a sarcastic one. 

To his surprise she burst into tears. He looked 
annoyed and bored, shrugged his shoulders, and 
cast away the matter with a swift motion of his 
graceful hands. 

“ Miss Marguerite, you have vanquished with a 
woman’s best weapon. It is the first time I have 
ever yielded to a pupil. You shall sing the Bolero 
instead of the ballad.” 

He lifted up a curtain behind the piano, and, 
dropping it, withdrew into an alcove, where a cup of 
hot coffee was always awaiting him at the end of 
the day’s lessons. 

Marguerite, through her tears, looked absently at 
the wall, and saw a picture there for the first time 
—a lovely little cabinet picture of the Sacred Heart 
of Jesus. It was in oil, and exquisite in design and 
coloring; a gift to Cellini from a good Italian priest 
who sought his countryman’s conversion. The 
sweet Saviour pointed to the glowing Heart upon 
His breast, as if inviting her to enter therein, while 
pitying eyes and tender lips seemed about to speak 
the legend inscribed upon the margin: “ Learn of 
Me, for I am meek and humble of heart. ” 

Words and picture, both together, brought back 
to Marguerite the memory of a girl in an Astrachan 
cap and a well-worn pelisse, kneeling in the dim 
confessional of the Sacred Heart chapel on just 



t 4 A LOST PRIM A DONNA . 

such anight as that, and hearing, between the bitter 
sobs, the whispered admonition: “ My child, you 
will never be truly happy until you are truly hum¬ 
ble.” 

How long ago was that ? Months, and months, 
and months—more than she (who had once been so 
faithful, who had tried so hard to please God) could 
reckon on all the fingers of her shapely hands. She 
set her lips in a hard line; her eyes took a stony 
look as she crushed down the pleading remorse of 
an awakened conscience. People in positions like 
hers could not be saints. The paths of pride and 
ambition were full of thorns, but she had elected to 
walk in them; and in spite of bleeding feet and 
aching heart it was too late now to turn back. She 
dried her eyes and ran quickly down the staircase. 
At its foot a dressy woman, some ten years her 
senior, was keeping guard. Her face was as inno¬ 
cent of expression as a waxen doll’s, and her flaxen 
frizzes and pink-and-white complexion increased her 
resemblance to that pleasant toy. She caught Miss 
Don Ivan in her arms with emphasis: “ My sweet 
Marguerite! ” And she kissed her on both cheeks. 
“My precious Lightwood!” And the embrace 
and salute were returned with ardor. Arm in arm, 
the two ladies stepped into the dark street. 

“ Some good fairy must have sent you to me,” 
said the young singer, squeezing her friend’s hand. 
“ I wanted so badly to see you, and you may guess 
about what.’’ 

“ The Washington concert ?” hazarded the friend. 


ELEANOR C. DONNELLY. 


IS 


“ Precisely; and you know you promised to 
chaperon me. We start to-morrow morning in the 
early train. And oh! my dear Lightwood, rejoice 
with me—Mr. Cellini says I may sing the Bolero! ” 
“ You do not surprise me,” said her listener. 
“ It is just as it should be—right, and proper, and 
reasonable. To come before a Washington audience 
(the /life, the very creme de la creme of the country) 
with such sentimental twaddle as Robin Adair — 
you, with your magnificent voice and your faultless 
execution,—why, my love, I knew in my heart that 
Cellini never would permit you to perpetrate such 
an insane.act. Said I to your aunt when you sang 
the Bolero yesterday: ‘ Such sweetness, such ex¬ 
pression, such facile finish! I am free to say, it 
carries me back to the day when I was in Paris at 
the house of Mme. Cinti Damareau, and heard 
there the inimitable Piccaninni, the pupil of the 

divine Rossini, who- 

“ Yes, yes, dear Lightwood,” interrupted Mar¬ 
guerite, too urgent to feast quietly even upon this 
delicious ambrosia, 11 you are the truest friend in 
the world, and I thank you heartily for your fond 
appreciation; but time presses, and what about my 
dress ? You know I must be provided with a con¬ 
cert dress.” 

“ A very grave and important matter, but rather 
late in the day for its consideration.” 

“ Granted,” laughed the young girl, “ but, you 
see, Cellini has so many whims, I was not sure 
until this evening that the concert might not be 



16 A LOST PRIM A DONNA . 

postponed a month from date. Lily thinks I might 
wear my black silk, with flowers in my hair, and 
new gloves.” 

“ Lily is a little foo-foo,” said Miss Lightwood. 
“ Black silk for a debutante at a soiree? Who ever 
heard of such madness ? My love, you would look 
like your grandmother.” 

“But what can I do?” queried Marguerite. 
“ Every cent I can spare goes to pay Mr. Cellini 
for my lessons, and times are so hard I cannot afford 
a new dress until next year. Indeed, to be plain 
with you, I don’t see very clearly how I can pay 
for one even then.” 

Lightwood’s flaxen curls trembled with import¬ 
ance. 

“ And who wants you to pay for a new dress out 
of hand ? My child, there is such a thing as man¬ 
agement. There is such a thing as elegant econ¬ 
omy. And, thank fortune! there are such things 
in the world as modistes who have the Christian 
charity to wait for their money, or take it in 
monthly instalments. I think I may say with cer¬ 
tainty that I saw your new concert dress this 
afternoon.” 

“ Where ?” cried the debutante in amazement. 

“ At Mme. Fitzeasy’s (a misfit of Miss Clara 
Cadwallader’s, who, by the by, is just your height 
and make), the sweetest love of a white gros-grain 
that ever you laid an eye on. Fitzeasy said I 
might have it for a trifle over seventy dollars, and 
I’m free to say I never saw a greater bargain.” 


ELEANOR C. DONNELLY. 


17 


“ Oh, Lightwood, let me think! ” cried Miss Don 
Ivan, pressing her hands to her head, the color 
coming and going in her cheeks. 

“ What is there to think about ? The dress is 
indispensable, ready-made, of exquisite material, 
and will fit you like a glove.” 

“ Oh! it is not that,” half sobbed Marguerite. 
1 * Heaven knows I want a new dress bad enough, 
and this white gros-grain would be the very thing 
for the concert. (My black silk was one of aunty’s 
made over, you know, and ten years old, if it is a 
day.) But the simple truth is, I cannot afford it. 
My music, choir and all, does not half pay me. 
Aunty works so hard; poor Lily, crippled as 
she is, is killing herself with copying; and as for 
Maurice-” 

“ Hang Maurice!” cried the homicidal Light- 
wood; “ a plague take Maurice! Maurice, indeed, 
—always Maurice! Much the foreman in a foundry 
knows about proprieties. The man has not a soul 
above iron. He is not worthy of you, the dolt. 
He does not appreciate your genius, your glorious 
voice, your sublime ambition. Now, if it were 
Cellini-” 

“ Hush! ” under her breath, and the girl laid a 
strong hand upon her friend’s arm, silencing her. 

“ Well, as I was saying,” pursued the volatile 
lady, “ there is the white gros-grain at Fitzeasy’s at 
your own terms, and here I go, up-town, to see 
about your gloves and slippers. Bless your precious 
heart! mightn’t I just as well kill two birds with 




18 A LOST PR IMA DONNA. 

one stone, and order home the dress on my 
way ?' ’ 

“ Wait! ” groaned Marguerite, but so feebly, so 
irresolutely, that Miss Lightwood either heard not 
or pretended not to hear; and away she went with 
an airy “ An revoir , ” and a kiss blown backward 
from her gloved finger tips. 

“ Oh! you cruel, selfish girl! ” murmured Miss 
Don Ivan, apostrophizing herself remorsefully: 
“Oh! you mean and poor-spirited coward!” 
And looking up in distress of mind at the starless 
sky, she felt some drops of water upon her fore¬ 
head, and realized for the first time that it was 
raining. 

A gentleman passing with an umbrella, and look¬ 
ing keenly at every chance pedestrian (as if in search 
of some one), saw her face in the light of a street 
lamp, and turned back to walk beside her. 

The light of the same street lamp showed him to 
be a tall, broad-shouldered young man, with a frank, 
honest face, and earnest brown eyes. 

His chestnut hair was clipped close to his well¬ 
shaped head; but his dress, while exquisitely neat, 
was nothing finer than a substantial business suit. 

“ Good-evening, Maggie, ” and he offered her 
his arm. 

“ Good-evening, Maurice,” but she would not 
take it. 

“ Your aunt and Lily were worried at your stay 
ing so late,” said his strong, even voice, “ so I 
came in search of you.” 


ELEANOR C. DONNELLY . 19 

“ There was no cause for anxiety,” she replied 
coolly. “ Mr. Cellini gave me a longer lesson than 
usual this evening, in rehearsal for the concert; and 
Miss Lightwood only left me a moment ago.” 

He started slightly. 

“ Maggie, you are not going to sing at that con¬ 
cert, after all ? ” 

She evidently resented the reproach in his voice, 
but she controlled herself to ask: 

“ And why not ? ” 

“ I have already told you my objections to the 
matter,” said the young man gravely; “ reasonable 
objections, which your aunt and sister share. But 
it seems your best friends have lost, of late, the 
power to advise or persuade you.” 

“ One would think I was a child or a fool who 
could not be trusted,” returned his companion 
bitterly (and she kept her face persistently turned 
away from him). “ My ‘ best friends,’ as you call 
them, have rather a curious way of consulting my 
best interests.” 

“ And what are your best interests ? Tell me 
candidly, Maggie, what good is the thing going to 
do you ? What do you expect to gain by singing 
at this concert ? ” 

** I expect to gain celebrity. I expect to make 
a name for myself, to establish my reputation as an 
artist, to win golden opinions from all sorts of men.” 

“ Andy Cellini, of course, will pay you well for 
your services ? ” 

How heartily she longed to cast back a trium- 


20 


A LOST FT IMA DONNA. 


phant assent to this humiliating query! But she 
dared not tell an open lie. Her head drooped a 
little, and her voice was lower: 

“ To be permitted to sing at all at Mr. Cellini’s 
soirees I regard as a singular privilege. To be the 
pupil of such a master imparts a prestige which is 
beyond and above a mere question of money. And 
furthermore, it is clear that I might go on singing 
in that stupid choir ” (pointing to the church they 
were passing) “ till my voice was broken and my 
hair turned gray, and I would never gain the tclat 
that one night’s success before a Washington audi¬ 
ence would give me!” 

Her gray eyes flashed like steel, but were 
dimmed the next moment with tears, as she saw 
how reverently her companion lifted his hat in 
worship of the unseen Presence whose poor little 
temple they were passing by. 

“ And for this empty bubble of fame,” he said 
after a long pause, “ you will sacrifice not only your 
peace of heart but that of your home ? You will 
turn your back on the friend you have known and 
(it is to be hoped) loved from childhood, and go 
over the world with this man, Cellini, who-” 

“ Maurice Keating! ” she broke out, her voice 
sharp with pain, “ you shall not insult me! If I go 
to Washington to-morrow, I go under the protec¬ 
tion of Miss Lightwood, a highly respectable lady, 
whose reputation is beyond the shadow of reproach, 
and one who has been, in her day, the chaperon of 
some of the finest singers of Europe! ” 



ELEANOR C. DONNELLY. 


21 


A dark flush rose to the young man’s cheek: 

“You are well aware, Margaret, that I detest 
that woman. She is worldly and frivolous to the 
last degree. Weak as she is, and you, a girl of such 
marked character, her influence over you is simply 
a species of fascination for which I cannot account 
(Nay, hear me out, since you goad me beyond con¬ 
trol.) She has bewitched you; she has enslaved 
you; she has alienated you from your home and 
friends. Her folly and flattery have transformed 
the once noble, sensible, and unselfish Margaret 
Donivan into the unreal and restlessly-ambitious 
Marguerite Don Ivan. Her work was complete 
when she made you a pupil of that Italian adven 
turer, Cellini! ” 

Marguerite’s face grew stormy. 

“ He is not an adventurer, Mr. Keating,” she 
panted; “he is a finished artist, and a thorough 
gentleman, which is more than can be said of some 
of the friends whom I have known and (it is to be 
hoped) loved from my childhood! My good Light- 
wood was right when she declared that you had not 
a soul above iron.” 

“You have said enough, Margaret,” said the 
young man in a low, intense voice. “ God forgive 
you for your scorn of a true heart! A foreman in 
an iron-foundry should not, indeed, sit in judgment 
on his betters. May your good Lightwood and 
your gentlemanly Cellini amply compensate you, in 
the future, for that which I foolishly hoped might 
have been the glory and the crown of your life! ” 


22 


A LOST PR IMA DONNA. 


They had reached the door of Miss Don Ivan’s 
home. He quitted her abruptly, and strode down 
the street into the foggy darkness; and she entered 
the house without a word or a backward glance. 

II. 

Her aunt was setting the table for tea; a slender 
woman in shabby mourning, whose care-worn face 
was a faded counterpart of Marguerite’s. The blast 
of damp air which that young lady brought in with 
her set the lamp to flaring on an old-fashioned writ¬ 
ing desk in the corner, and fluttered the papers over 
which a girl was bending. 

She was like a spirit, more than flesh and blood, 
that young copyist, so ethereal in form, so trans¬ 
parent in skin, that it did not need a glance at the 
crooked spine to tell that she was an invalid. Her 
pale face was full of purity and sweetness; her dress 
so simple, both in material and make, that Maur¬ 
ice Keating always said the wearer brought to his 
mind those old, old words: “ Whose adorning let 
it not be the outward plaiting of the hair, or the 
wearing of gold, or the putting on of apparel; but 
the hidden man of the heart, the incorruptibility 
of a quiet and meek spirit, which is rich in the 
sight of God.” , 

No such holy or soothing words came to Mar¬ 
guerite, however, as she threw aside her things, and 
sat herself down on a low stool by the fire. She 
was deaf to Lily’s gentle, “ What kept you so late, 


ELEANOR C. DONNELLY . 23 

darling?” and the older woman’s, “Isn’t your 
dress damp, my dear ? And hadn’t you better 
change your shoes ? ” She could only look from 
her aunt’s threadbare merino to her sister’s thin 
hand, in which the pen was trembling at its work, 
and think with horror of the white gros-grain at 
Mme. Fitzeasy’s, and the gloves, and the flowers, 
and the slippers, and all the rest of the folly. 

A few months back this had been the sunniest 
and sweetest hour of the Donivan day. Maurice 
Keating, glad to escape from the barren resources 
of a suburban boarding-house into a loved and 
most congenial atmosphere, generally came to 
supper every evening; and bringing Margaret safely 
home from the last tedious music lesson, brought 
with him at the same time a fund of genial talk and 
cheerful laughter that seemed to fill the poor little 
box of a house with warmth and beauty. There 
was always some delicacy then for slender Lily, a 
bird or a jelly, a bottle of wine or a few hot-house 
flowers; and after supper, when the poor tired girl 
lay resting upon the old lounge before the fire, 
aunty and Margaret sewed or knitted, while Maur¬ 
ice read aloud from some charming book. It would 
have been hard to find a happier or a worthier 
quartette. Marguerite thought of it all now till her 
heart swelled within her, and her eyes were wet 
with unshed tears. To quarrel with Maurice and 
wound his noble nature was bad enough; but to go 
in debt in such a mean, selfish, underhand way, 
without the faintest hope of getting out of it, was 


A LOST PRIM A DONNA. 


24 

assuredly the bitterest drop in her bitter cup of 
retrospection. When her aunt called her to supper 
she coujd not even make a show of eating. A sob 
kept rising in her throat as she sipped her tea in 
miserable silence, and a voice that welled from a 
certarfi bleeding Heart kept sounding ever in her 
ears: “ Learn of Me, for I am meek and humble of 
heart, and you shall find rest for your soul.” 

Rest-—rest—the rest that remaineth for the peo¬ 
ple of God, the very thing for which her soul was 
hungering and thirsting. 

Rest—rest—sweeter than the balmy slumber of 
the tired child, safe in its mother’s arms and pillowed 
close to its mother’s heart; purer and deeper than 
the twilight repose of the weary traveller after 
his long day’s journey, stretched on a downy bed, 
the hush of contentment on the cozy room, and soft 
hands bathing his dusty, toil-worn feet. 

Rest for the soul (was Marguerite’s thought), 
delicious, refreshing rest. But the words must be 
taken with their context, and the plaintive music of 
the promise, like phantom bells in the desert, 
seemed to mock her as she shrank from the hard 
conditions it imposed. 

Her sympathetic companions, reading her pale, 
stern face (without apparently looking at it), sus¬ 
pected a lovers’ quarrel. Leaving her to herself, 
they kept up a kindly dialogue all the while on 
homely topics. They knew her too well to harass 
her with questions. And after the tea things 
were removed, Marguerite went to the old upright 


ELEANOR C. DONNELLY. 25 

piano in the corner and practised the Bolero for 
hours. 

It was only at bedtime, when she took up her 
candle to go to her room, that she nerved herself to 
make mention of to-morrow’s journey: 

‘‘You must call me betimes in the morning, 
aunty, for I am going to Washington on the early 
train, and I have arranged to stop for Miss Light- 
wood on my way to the depot.'’ 

She did not look at them as she spoke, and it 
was never clear to her afterward how she evaded 
Lily’s inquiries about her dress, or her aunt’s mild 
protest against travelling to the Capital (as she 
meant to do) in her best black silk. The half- 
smothered sigh that accompanied the words was not 
lost upon the debutante, for that sigh meant un¬ 
paid rent, and a grocer’s bill, and a half-empty 
coal bin; but she said nothing about the expensive 
parcel awaiting her at Miss Lightwood’s. What 
she did say was: 

“ I am too tired and hoarse to help you with the 
Rosary to-night, Lily,” and so went upstairs, leav¬ 
ing her sister and aunt to tell their beads alone 
before the little crucifix in Lily’s room. Long after 
the lights were put out, and silence had settled on 
the house, she stole, in her night-dress and with 
noiseless feet, into that darkened room, and, kneel¬ 
ing by the bedside, pressed her lips gently to the 
pale face on the pillow. Lily was asleep; but the 
cheek that Marguerite kissed was wet with tears, and 
the regular breathing of the slumberer was broken 


26 


A LOST PR IMA DONNA. 


at intervals by one of those long, shuddering sobs 
such as children give when, worn out with weeping, 
they lose all (save the vague memory of their griefs) 
in innocent repose. 

To sleep after that was to dream of being dead 
and laid out in a gros-grain silk which was all wet 
and blistered with Maurice Keating’s tears, while 
her aunt and Lily shook over her what seemed at 
first to be showers of scarlet roses, but which 
changed as they fell into earthworms and creeping 
leeches, defiling the whole of her curious shroud. 
So loathsome to her, in fine, were the waking 
thoughts of her new and costly dress, that she could 
not bring herself to look at it until the next even¬ 
ing. Miss Lightwood was with her then, and they 
stood together before a mirror in one of the rooms 
of a Washington hotel, making ready for the con¬ 
cert. That highly respectable lady, who had been 
in her day the chaperon of some of the finest 
singers of the Old World, had taken her protegee (ot 
the New) thoroughly in hand. She had powdered 
the young girl’s skin and rouged her cheeks; she 
had penciled the naturally fine brows, touched the 
eyelashes with some sort of an Eastern cosmetic, 
and built her hair into such a tower of braids and 
puffs and frizzles and flowers, that Marguerite’s 
coiffure was something rare and mysterious to be¬ 
hold. 

But, unfortunately, there was a drawback. The 
resources of the most adroit and practised of dress¬ 
ing-maids are but finite. Fashionable science can 


ELEANOR C. DONNELLY. 


27 


adorn, but not create, a subject; and when Light- 
wood had looped the last spray of flowers and 
secured the last hairpin, dissatisfaction took posses¬ 
sion of her soul. Marguerite’s head was not a 
success. Human skill could do no more; it was 
impossible to dispute that fact; but it was equally 
impossible to dispute another and much more stub¬ 
born fact (which almost deserves, from its astound¬ 
ing character, to be put into italics). Marguerite 
looked better, handsomer—yea, even more distin¬ 
guished—in her own natural complexion, and her 
own simple everyday coiffure , than she did in all 
this artificial bravery. 

“ If I took it, every hair, to pieces again, I don’t 
think I could improve on it,” said Light wood, her 
head on one side, like a parrot, viewing the dis¬ 
appointing effect. “ Marguerite, I have never 
remarked it before, and I am very sorry to have to 
remark it now, but I am free to say you lack style . 
When your combing-sacque goes off, however, and 
your new dress goes on, perhaps matters will 
mend. ” 

And so Marguerite’s snowy horror came to light 
at last, was lifted out of its case, and shaken into a 
shining mass on Lightwood’s arm. How it seemed 
to fill the room with its gorgeousness! The white 
slippers waiting their turn on the footstool, the 
white gloves on the bed, and the spangled fan and 
trinkets on the table, all sank into obscurity and 
annihilation before this piece of trailing elegance. 
Blistering tears, and earthworms and leeches, what 


28 


A LOST FT IMA DO MM A. 


had they to do with such a fresh and lovely thing ? 
And yet the debutante shuddered as it was whisked 
dexterously over her head, and the dressing-maid 
pro tern, (coming to the surface of her deep dejec¬ 
tion) began to draw the silken laces. Then the 
loathing took a new form: 

“ Oh, Lightwood! this is detestable!” 

“ What, my love ?” and the waxen doll looked 
up, very red in the face from her unusual exertions. 

Miss Don Ivan was still redder, a good, honest, 
substantial blush that swallowed up the rouge and 
did violence to the powder. 

** Look at this corsage; it is cut low, and shame¬ 
fully low at that! ” 

“ My precious child, who ever saw a genuine con¬ 
cert dress with a high corsage ? The thing is pre¬ 
posterous! Why, there was the inimitable Picca- 
ninni, pupil of the divine Rossini, as pure and 
modest a flower as ever bloomed on a stage, said to 
be a convent graduate, wore her shoulders so 
bare (exquisite shoulders she had, I am free to say) 
that-” 

“ I don’t care if a hundred Piccaninnis indorsed 
it,” cried Marguerite hotly. “ It isn’t decent, 
Lightwood, and you know it as well as I do. I 
would sooner give up the concert altogether than 
go out on a public stage with my neck as bare as 
this.” 

Lightwood stood with clasped hands and shoul¬ 
ders elevated, a picture of aggravating resigna¬ 
tion: 



Eleanor c. Donnelly. 


29 


11 Well then, my dear, I am afraid the audience 
must forego that delicious Bolero. A thousand 
pities it is, when the dress is so expensive a one, 
and you have come so far to wear it, and may never 
in your lifetime have a like chance to display your 
superb voice to appreciative people. But that is 
not the worst of it.” 

“ For mercy’s sake, don’t torture me!” cried 
Miss Don Ivan crossly. “ What more are you 
keeping back ? ” 

“ Nothing,” sighed the exasperating Lightwood, 
“ only Cellini will be as mad as a hornet if you 
leave him in the lurch for a bit of prudery: and it 
will be such a triumph to that odious Maurice 
Keating. You will never hear the end of his ‘ I 
told you so’s,’ and the rest of his humdrum plati¬ 
tudes.” 

Marguerite bit her lips till they pained her, and 
tapped the floor with the point of her slipper. 

“ Listen, Lightwood,” she said after a pause, 
“ can you not manage a fichu of some kind ?” 

“ Haven’t a single thing in the valise that would 
answer. A common article won’t do; it must be 
real lace, something rich and rare to correspond with 
the dress. And to go to buy it here in a strange 
city, and the clock on the minute of seven—don’t 
talk about it! ”—and the cunning chaperon elevated 
her hands and eyes, implying that a fichu at such 
an hour, and under such peculiar circumstances, 
would command a more than fabulous price. 

When Wolsey said to Cromwell: 


30 A LOST PR IMA DONNA. 

“ I charge thee, fling away ambition: 

By that sin fell the angels ; how can man, then, 

The image of his Maker, hope to win by’t ?” 

he gave utterance to a sublime truth, old as the 
eternal hills, which bitter personal experience has 
made patent to all the sons and daughters of men 
seeking preferment, since the days when Adam 
and Eve ate of the primeval apple, that they might 
be as gods;—has made patent to none more signally 
than to those who, not being to the manor born 
(and forgetful that he who exalteth himself shall be 
humbled), aspire to sit in the high places of the 
earth. 

And so, in her little measure and degree, was 
Miss Don Ivan to gain the saving knowledge which 
a bitter personal experience (the agent of a divine 
will and the instrument of a divine grace) alone 
could bring her in her day and generation. 

She made no further remonstrance. She sub¬ 
mitted in silence to be laced into the ill-fitting 
corsage by her adroit companion. She allowed 
herself to be turned about like a lay figure in a 
modiste s window. Gold buttons were screwed into 
her ears; the satin slippers pinched her feet; a 
necklace of pearls was fastened about her throat, 
and bracelets and rings were adjusted; and, at last, 
(the elaborate toilet complete) she saw her full- 
length reflection in the swinging mirror. 

Her nearest and dearest relation would not have 
known her! 

The face was not her own, painted and powdered 


ELEANOR C. DONNELLY . 


3 i 


into a semblance of a wax dummy’s in a barber’s 
show-case; the form was not her own, with its 
naked shoulders and arms, borrowed laces and 
jewels; and the dress was certainly not her own, for 
she had not paid for it, and alas! poor victim, she 
did not know (under heaven) when she ever would 
be able to pay for it. 

She felt herself to be what she looked, false, 
false, false; from head to foot, utterly and su¬ 
premely false. And she despised herself. 

In the small dressing-room behind the stage, she 
was met by Mr. Cellini. His first puzzled glance 
told her that he did not recognize her. The 
chrysalis had become such a very remarkable butter¬ 
fly that the gentleman was not to be blamed for his 
error, He recovered himself quickly, however, and 
approaching Marguerite, presented her with a pro¬ 
gramme. Then he kept near her, plying her with 
compliments and bonbons , and even going so far as 
to detach some flowers from his buttonhole and lay 
them in her hand. But there was an odor of wine 
with it all, which the tuberoses and heliotrope 
could not cover. 

Marguerite’s face burned with embarrassment. 
She felt humiliated, ill at ease; and, although her 
admiration of her master bordered on worship, she 
could not disguise from herself the fact that his 
manner of addressing her was a trifle more familiar 
than it ever had been before. Instead of pleasing 
her vanity, this, strange to say, inspired her with a 
certain fear, and she thought of her aunt, and of 


32 


A LOST PRIM A BO NIVA. 


old-fashioned Maurice Keating, with a yearning for 
their protecting presence that was positive pain. 
The brilliant eyes bending over her led her to droop 
her own upon the programme she held, and she 
began to go carefully over its contents. Then, 
indeed, the iron entered her soul. Her master had 
said little to her on the subject, but from his signifi¬ 
cant silence she had inferred flattering things, and 
fallen into a fatal delusion. “ The Washington 
soiree” (she had said to Miss Lightwood) “ is to 
have but one prima donna , and the name of that 
enviable being is Marguerite Don Ivan.” Now, to 
her amazement, she read in the most desirable 
place on the programme “ Mme. Ethel COURTNEY 
Vivian i, late of the Royal Opera at Vienna!” 
The paper shook in her hands. But for the rouge y 
she would have been as colorless as her dress; and 
in the faintness which came over her (the result of 
excitement, thwarted ambition, and, it must be 
confessed, tight lacing) she could scarcely see the 
obscure number which marked her own modest 
name on th5 bill. She nerved herself to look around 
the room. Besides Lightwood and Cellini, there 
were present some half-dozen men and women, all 
musical, all more or less engrossed with boxes of 
pastilles, their voices, and their gloves. But none 
of those unassuming ladies could be mistaken for a 
moment for “ Mme. Ethel Courtney Viviani, late 
of the Royal Opera,” etc. The “ star of the goodly 
companie ” had evidently not yet arisen. The 


ELEANOR C. DONNELLY. 


33 


prima donna of the night had not yet condescended 
to appear. 

Marguerite became aware that Lightwood was 
winking and nodding at her in a most extraordinary 
and mysterious way, and immediately put her hand 
to her head, under the impression that some of the 
finery had got out of kelter. 

“ It is not that,” whispered her friend, drawing 
nearer, and talking behind her fan; “ you look very 
nice and presentable (although I might as well have 
let your eyebrows alone, and now that the powder 
has blown off, I see you are too sallow to wear 
white); but I heard her in Vienna, and, I am free 
to say, she is perfectly exquisite and sings like an 
angel. ” 

“ Who? ” questioned Marguerite, knowing all the 
while what the reply would be. 

“ Mme. Viviani, the celebrated singer. Those 
people have been telling me all about her, and I do 
think it was mean of Cellini to show you such a 
slight.” 

“ I don’t see how Mme. Viviani can damage me" 
said the young girl proudly. ” A cultivated audi¬ 
ence will understand at once. She is an opera 
singer, and this is my first concert.” 

“ Oh, yes! but the critics are perfectly merciless, 
and they always favor those who have been abroad. 
You might sing like a seraph to-night, but you and 
your clothes are not imported, and Mme. Viviani 
and hers are, and, I am free to say, those newspaper 


34 


A LOST PR IMA DO JVM A. 


men will pick you to pieces. I don’t want to dis¬ 
courage you, my love,” concluded the voluble lady, 
“ but do you know you are a little, just a little— 
hoarse ? ” 

“ It is this abominable dress,” retorted poor Mar¬ 
guerite. “ I am fairly shivering with cold, and I 
left my shawl in the carriage because it was too old 
and shabby to be brought to the light.” 

“ That is a thousand pities,” said the chaperon. 

I would insist on your putting on this opera cloak 
of mine, but I mean to slip into the hall with one 
of the gentlemen whenever your solo is in order; 
and it is really a very distinguished audience. I 
peeped through the curtain just now, and I assure 
you they are all in evening dress.” 

“ Miss Marguerite,” interposed Cellini, bending 
over her again with that familiar smile she detested, 
“ if you will give me this moment that little hand 
of yours, we shall go out now for our duo." 

Like one in a dream (more like one in a night¬ 
mare), she faced that sea of eyes. All she saw was 
eyes—eyes—eyes, and a mass of silks, jewels, and 
waving fans. Her long skirt tripped her twice 
before she reached the piano, and the awkwardness 
of her dtbut threw a chill on the critical house. No 
one (who has not tried it) knows how very hard it 
is to walk gracefully down a stage for the first time, 
and face, simply and naturally, the fire of a battery 
of eyes. There is a difficulty (under such circum¬ 
stances) with one’s elbows and hands which borders 
on the insurmountable; and the victim (to borrow 


ELEANOR C. DONNELLY. 


35 


the words of a well-known humorist) seems, in his 
embarrassed imagination, to have as many feet as a 
centipede. 

Marguerite, in her turn, felt as if all ease and 
comfort had forever fled. 

With her first note came the consciousness that 
she was hoarse; and she grew blind with terror. 

The duo was the familiar “ La ci damn ” from 
‘‘ Don Giovanni,” of which luckily she knew her 
part by rote; and the powerful magnetism of Cellini 
bore her along with an abandon .and vim that 
redeemed her from destruction. 

But the Italian’s blood was up. The fame of the 
maestro was staked upon the success of his pupil; 
and the latter almost shrieked aloud from the grip 
upon her hand. 

It was hard enough for her to see that olive face 
bowing low to the audience at the final cadence, 
wreathed with smiles and melting with affected 
suavity; but it was simply terrible to watch it 
darken upon her the moment his back was turned 
to the people, and behold it secretly convulsed with 
arbitrary anger. 

“ I thought we were going to have a fiasco , ” he 
hissed between his clenched teeth (as the ghost of 
an applause followed them off the stage): “ Miss 
Marguerite, you had better look sharp to your 
Bolero! ” 

As well might he have told a blind woman to 
look sharp on the brink of a precipice; or a sleep¬ 
walker to take care on the dizzy apex of a danger- 


36 


A LOST PRIM A DONNA. 


ous roof. For, blinded and stunned, the poor 
young creature sat herself down in the little dressing- 
room to which he led her, and heard, more than 
saw, him tear the music of the unfortunate duet to 
ribbons, and cast it from him. But, before she 
could say to him what was trembling on her lips, 
an excitement arose around the staircase leading to 
the street. The door was thrown open, and a 
French maid in a peculiar costume preceded into 
the apartment a lady on whom all eyes were riveted 
at once. 


III. 

She was surpassingly beautiful, and dressed with 
a magnificence that was simply royal. Her skin 
was colorless as the petals of a Calla lily, but the 
red of her delicate mouth, the golden brown of her 
large eyes, and the shining elegance of her blond 
hair, made ample amends for her lack of bloom. 
She was not tall, but moulded most symmetrically. 
Her jewels were diamonds of the purest water; and 
the clinging crape of her embroidered dress, and the 
simple coil of her fair hair, gave such a classical 
charm to her form and face that poor Miss Don 
Ivan felt beside her as a barnyard fowl might be 
supposed to feel beside a bird of paradise. 

Cellini and the other gentlemen immediately sur¬ 
rounded her; but she ignored them all, and drop¬ 
ping a white velvet coat from her still whiter 
shoulders, she seated herself deliberately in a chair 


ELEANOR C. DONNELLY. 


37 


near Marguerite, and put out her foot to her maid. 
The Frenchwoman, on her knees, proceeded to 
remove the beauty’s shoe, and incase the pretty 
member in a satin slipper which literally blazed with 
diamonds. And then the other foot was put forth, 
and the same performance gone through with equal 
results. Being daintily shod to her satisfaction, and 
her blond hair relieved of a gossamer scarf, the 
elegant creature condescended for the first time to 
look at Cellini through her glass, and to extend to 
him the tips of her gloved fingers. 

The Italian figuratively laid himself down at her 
feet, and suffered her to walk over him. He 
devoured her with his wonderful eyes. He hung 
upon her charming lips. He showed himself so 
completely oblivious of everything and everybody, 
save her own sweet self, that Marguerite looked with 
profound amazement on his transfigured face. The 
pillar of ice was turned to a pillar of fire. 

“ My dear,” whispered Lightwood in her ear, 
“ he is evidently dead in love with her; and they 
say she is as rich as a queen. She was hand-in¬ 
glove with all the crowned heads of Europe, and 
the reigning favorite with the late Empress of 
France. But is it not time for her to sing her 
solo ? ” 

“ It is full ten minutes since the last piece: and 
she is next on the programme,” answered Marguer¬ 
ite drearily. 

“ Bless my heart! and how perfectly composed 
she is! Look at her, walking up and down with 


33 


A LOST FT IMA DONNA. 


Cellini, and fanning herself—and the audience wait¬ 
ing! That necklace is what I call Oriental; I’m 
free to say I never saw a purer set of brilliants. 
Some Caliph or Khedive, or some other old Begum 
of that sort, threw it to her in a bouquet when she 
was brought before the curtain ten times in the 
Egyptian opera. What is she going to sing this 
evening, anyway, Marguerite ? ” 

“It is marked simply Ballad" said poor Miss 
Don Ivan, who was shivering visibly. 

“ Now, who’d have believed it ? One would 
think her selection might be an aria, or a cavatina, 

y y 

or a- 

“ Bolero ,” suggested Marguerite grimly. 

“To be sure’’ (not noticing the sarcasm); 
“ something operatic or classical, or even elabor¬ 
ately ecclesiastical, you know. Only a ballad ? 
And dear me, hear how she talks French one 
minute, and Italian the next, as if she had been 
born in France, and raised in Italy. There! she 
is going on the stage at last! My precious child, 
did you ever hear such an uproar in your life ? ’’ 

It was indeed a perfect tempest of applause that 
greeted the appearance of the beautiful cantatrice. 

Miss Lightwood dragged Marguerite to the stage 
door, and (unseen themselves) they could see Cellini 
lead the famous Mme. Ethel Courtney Viviani 
down to the footlights, which seemed to blaze up 
and burn brighter in honor of her approach. 

The applause subsided for a second, only to break 
out with redoubled vehemence as the lovely creature 



ELEANOR C. DONNELLY . 


39 


stood alone in the centre of the stage and surveyed 
the crowded house. 

Such exquisite coolness and aplomb ! She might 
have been facing such throngs every night for a 
thousand years, for all the emotion the stirring scene 
seemed to awake in her. Was there no heart to 
beat, that the color of her creamy cheek never took 
the faintest blush, nor the golden-brown eyes the 
smallest dilation ? She adjusted the diamond 
bracelets on her.arms, calmly folded her graceful 
hands, and stood unmoved as a statue. When the 
house was so still that every man could hear his 
neighbor breathing, she slightly, very slightly, 
bent her perfect head, and sang —Robin Adair . 

Miss Lightwood pinched Marguerite’s arm till it 
was purple; but the girl was too absorbed to feel 
it. The draught from the open windows (raw, 
searching November wind) beat upon her uncovered 
neck and shoulders; and Cellini rudely jostled her 
in the doorway, as he applauded noiselessly with 
his gloved palms, and purred to himself in Italian. 
But Marguerite was lost to every personal discom¬ 
fort. She was spell-bound, mesmerized, chained 
hand and foot, by the silver links of the blond one’s 
siren voice. Never had she heard anything like it 
before. Never had she seen anything like this 
marvellous repose, this perfect control of every 
nerve which made “ the fair with the golden hair” 
so graceful a contrast to her frightened and awkward 
predecessor. But this was not all—ah, no! just 
Heaven! this was not all. Out on that brilliant 


4 ° 


A LOST PRIM A DONNA. 


stage, in the presence of that elegant and aesthetic 
audience, the favorite of the crowned heads was 
singing the very song she (Margaret) had despised 
and rejected—the simple old Robin Adair , with¬ 
out a trill or a cadenza or a foreign flourish oi 
any sort to mar its beauty. The voice that sang it 
was so superlatively lovely, so easy in its extraor¬ 
dinary cultivation, so full of the rich aroma its 
owner had brought across the seas from the land 
whose every breeze is musical with song—that the 
homely old ballad took a new and most pathetic 
meaning. 

The audience was visibly moved. Silly, over¬ 
dressed misses forgot to flirt, and found a legitimate 
use for their airy handkerchiefs. Tears sparkled on 
the cheeks of worldly-faced women, and were 
suffered, unchecked, to water the dry dust of 
treacherous cosmetics; and even the keen eyes of 
practical merchants, and the dull orbs of plethoric 
bankers and congressmen, revealed a suspicious 
moisture. Alas! for the listener who shivered 
unnoticed in the stage-door! The bitterness of a 
never-to-be-realized ambition dropped that hour, 
like burning gall, into Margaret Donivan’s sore 
heart. “ Vanity of vanities, and all is vanity, save 
to love God and serve but Him alone! ” She saw 
Mme. Viviani retreating from the stage, laden with 
floral treasures, bouquets, baskets, crowns. The 
public enthusiasm had run mad and found a vent 
in flowers. She heard the call for madame’s foot¬ 
man, which was answered by a colored man in 


ELEANOR C. DONNELLY . 


4i 


livery, who came to aid in clearing the boards of 
their fragrant burden; while Cellini led off the 
triumphant Diva literally through a path strewn 
with roses. And then arose a rapturous encore. 

I’m free to say,” whispered Lightwood, her 
flaxen frizzes (very moist and limp with perspira¬ 
tion) hanging over her brows, and her general 
appearance that of a much-abused doll; “ I’m free 
to say, my love, in all my travels, I never beheld a 
grander ovation. I can’t take my eyes off her.” 

Neither could Marguerite. And what she saw 
suggested a sick sultana lying back on her divan 
with a jewelled vinaigrette at her nostrils, and her 
maid fanning her with a sandal-wood fan. Nor were 
the slaves wanting to complete the scene. Cellini 
and a number of distinguished-looking men (who 
had come in from the audience) surrounded the 
languid beauty, plying her with compliments in 
foreign tongues, and paying her homage as to a 
sovereign queen. 

Finally, after a delay sufficient to set the audi¬ 
ence into a frenzy (the applause thundering all the 
while outside), the zx-prima-donna of the Royal 
Opera at Vienna yielded reluctantly to the encore , 
and once more condescended to show her lovely 
face to her admirers. 

Poor Miss Don Ivan sat like a carven image in 
the corner. Forgotten by her companions, deserted 
even by the inconstant Lightwood (who had gone 
over with the rest to the enemy), the poor young 
singer was only conscious of feeling very cool in 


42 


A LOS 7' PL IMA DONNA. 


her uncomfortable dress, only conscious of a des¬ 
perate longing to rush out of it all, and get home 
as quickly as she could to Lily and her aunt. But 
that awful Bolero was yet to come. Cellini had 
never looked at her nor spoken to her since Mme. 
Viviani’s entrance; and she began to take heart of 
grace that he, too, had forgotten her. Now, how¬ 
ever, he stood before her with a mask of reserve on 
his face, and the long slender fingers twitching 
viciously at his mustache. The regal blonde put up 
her gold-mounted glasses, and superciliously studied 
the situation. His manner was freezing: 

“ Are you aware, Miss Don Ivan, that your solo 
is in order, and that the audience is waiting ? ” 

The poor girl’s misery found a voice at last, but 
it was a very hoarse one. 

“ Oh, Mr. Cellini! please excuse me this evening. 
I am ill—I am nervous—I cannot, indeed, I cannot 
sing that Bolero .” 

A wicked light came into the maestro's stern eyes: 

“ I shall not excuse you,” he said between his 
teeth; “ the choice of the Bolero , signorina , was 
your own. In spite of my better judgment, you 
insisted on selecting it, and now, pazzerella, you 
shall stick to your selection. Come! ” And with 
his hand of iron stripped entirely of its velvet 
glove, the master led forth his pale and trembling 
pupil. 

Once more the vision of eyes—eyes—eyes—star¬ 
ing at her out of an ambush of silks, and jewels, 
and waving fans. The very sweetness of the per- 


ELEANOR C. DONNELLY. 


43 


fumed air helped to turn her sick Losing Cellini’s 
support (for the maestro had retreated again to the 
stage-door), Marguerite grasped at the piano, and 
steadied herself—literally, to face the music. The 
hands beside her struck the keys—a florid prelude 
—then an awful pause. She was mute. 

A hum of surprise began to pervade the house; 
lorgnettes were levelled at the stage, and the sub¬ 
lime indifference of the audience was broken here 
and there. The critics were growing restless in 
their toleration of this unknown singer, who lacked 
both style and prestige. 

“ Mme. Viviani has killed her! ” sighed Light- 
wood to a ready-made acquaintance, a youth of 
tender years in a dress suit and lavender gloves, on 
whom she was wasting her platitudes and her 
pastilles. 

“ Pwe-cithe-ly, ” lisped the gentle dandy. 

“ Oh! faithful friend, how true you are to your 
trust! ” said a stern, even voice in her ear that 
made her shiver. 'But she failed to discover the 
speaker. The Nemesis was lost in the dense throng 
around the entrance door. 

“ Courage! ” whispered the accommodating 
pianist to Marguerite; and he improvised a few 
more brilliant bars. Then there came another 
pause more awful than the first, during which 
audible murmurs of “ What does it all mean ?” 
“ I do wish she would hurry and get through! ” 
44 Aren’t you dying to hear that sweet Viviani sing 
again ? ” penetrated even to the footlights. 


44 


A LOST PRIM A DONNA. 


“ Go on! ” hissed Cellini in the background; and 
in sheer desperation from Marguerite’s dry lips 
burst a hoarse, discordant strain. Such a mockery 
of music! There was neither time nor tune to the 
song; and just below her, in the orchestra chairs, 
a group of fashionable, but ill-bred, young ladies 
were shaking under her very eyes in spasms of sup¬ 
pressed laughter. 

Could it be that all the wdiolesome air in the 
house was suddenly exhausted, and Marguerite was 
smothering in the dreadful vacuum ? Could it be 
that the lustrous globes of the chandelier above the 
stage had broken loose in a crazy transport and w 7 ere 
rushing wildly down upon her head ? 

She crumpled her music in her gloved hand—took 
a step backward (unconscious tragedy!) in a blind, 
dizzy way—and fell flat at the pianist’s feet in a 
dead faint. 

Then was seen the spectacle of a tall, broad- 
shouldered young man with a frank, honest face 
and a pair of earnest brown eyes making his way 
from the entrance door, like a strong swimmer, 
through waves of excited people. 

The genteel voice of Lightwood was heard to cry 
“ Murder! ” as the vigorous arm of the newcomer 
dealt destruction to the waxen doll and her amiable 
dandy; and, leaving them hors de combat , Maurice 
Keating cleared the footlights at a bound, and 
sprang upon the stage. 

“ O sweet pale Margaret! 

O rare pale Margaret! ” 


ELEANOR C. DONNELLY. 


45 


She lay there like a marble statue of despair 
fallen from its pedestal; the broken and bruised 
flowers that were strewn all about her (ddbris of 
Mme. Viviani’s triumph) mute and fitting emblems 
of the crushed and broken victim of a blighted 
ambition. It wrung his very heart to look at her, 
so ghastly and corpse-like in all that glittering and 
detestable finery; but the hero of our story did not 
waste his time in useless sentimentalities or adjura¬ 
tions a la Romeo. He was eminently a man of 
action as well as one of unpretending delicacy, and 
he loyally resented his maiden Margaret, his pearl, 
his precious one, being exposed in her hour of 
helpless humiliation to the profane gaze of those 
cold-blooded aristocrats. With the grace and 
agility of a young Lochinvar, he caught up the 
lifeless form of his poor wilful darling; and with 
that waxen face upon his shoulder, and the shining 
length of her snowy dress trailing over his arm, 
Maurice Keating bore away his prize. The dress¬ 
ing-room door stood open; Cellini and his satellites, 
the French maid and the colored footman (to say 
nothing of Lightwood, ddsolee, and supported by 
her amorous stripling), all pressed around him; but 
he scattered them, right and left. To snatch from 
the elegant Viviani the glass of champagne she was 
about to pour into her own stately throat, and to 
force it between the white lips of Margaret; to wrap 
his warm plaid about the reviving girl, and to shut 
the carriage-door forcibly in the face of the 
astounded Lightwood, were works which few save 


46 


A LOS r PRIM A DONNA. 


Maurice Keating could have done as rapidly or as 
well. 

But that wretched ride by rail that followed, the 
stout-hearted young foreman never forgot. The 
girl was burning with fever, and her strong lover 
was taxed to the utmost to keep her safely in the 
car; to soothe her out of singing snatches of that 
vile Bolero in her husky wreck of a voice; and to 
hide his manly emotion when she pleaded with him 
in moving terms to send Maurice Keating to her, 
that she might ask his forgiveness then and there 
for all her obstinacy and pride. 

Before noon the next day Margaret lay in her 
own little white bed in her own little room, with 
her aunt and Lily watching anxiously by her side. 
It was an aggravated case of pneumonia. Dis¬ 
appointment, mental worriment, and the unusual 
exposure of her neck and chest had done the mis¬ 
chief; and life and death had a tough struggle of it 
before her naturally good constitution, with the 
blessing of Heaven, got the mastery. But her 
singing voice was gone forever. 

“ My pride is justly punished, dear Maurice,” 
she whispered with a faint smile (when that gentle¬ 
man at his one hundred and tenth call was admitted 
for the first time to a peep at the pale and interest¬ 
ing invalid). “ The stage has lost a prima donna." 

“ But we have gained our Margaret, God bless 
her! ” was the hearty response; and the speaker 
thought he had never seen his affianced look sweeter 
or lovelier than she did at that moment, with the 


ELEANOR C. DONNELLY . 


47 


penitent light in her eyes and the peaceful smile 
playing about her lips. 

It was her first venture at sitting up, and they 
had ensconced her in the big easy-chair in aunty’s 
room; and Lily had made her quite gay with a 
scarlet woollen wrapper and a breast-knot of Maur¬ 
ice’s flowers. 

She touched them with her thin hand, and the 
gray eyes were turned brightly on the young man: 

“ Your ‘ roses blossom the whole year round,’ ” 
she said to him, with a glance at the Christmas frost 
on the window pane. 

“ Heaven grant that they may, and that the 
longest-lived of all my flowers may be my sweet 
Queen Margaret! They have not told you my 
secret, dear, but God has been very good to us. 
The iron men have taken me into the firm this 
week; and I have the prettiest little nest in the 
world making ready for my sick bird. As soon as 
you are strong enough to go to church, Daisy, we 
will get married like old-fashioned folks, and settle 
down to housekeeping.” 

“ I am not worthy of you,” she said very hum¬ 
bly, and with moist eyes. 

“ Say rather I am not worthy of you,” returned 
he, much moved and shading his face with his hand; 
and there is no telling to what lengths these mutual 
self-depreciations might have gone, if Lily had not 
burst into the room at this juncture in a state of 
such excitement as to startle even aunty, who, worn 
out with nursing, was dozing over the fire. Her 


48 


A LOST FT IMA DONNA. 


usually pensive face was radiant with smiles, and 
she made a show of hiding something in the folds 
of her apron. 

“ Miss Lightwood has just been here with a 
message,” she cried merrily. 

Maurice’s pleasant face was clouded, and the 
blood rose brightly in Margaret’s transparent cheek. 

“ You need not look so cross, young gentleman,” 
said Lily, not at all abashed at her reception. “ It 
is all so funny, and so nice, and so romantic, that 
I know you will laugh instead of frowning when you 
hear the whole of it. Voila tout! Mr. Cellini is 
to be married at the Cathedral, to-morrow morning, 
to some Mme. Vivi—Vivi—(bless me! what was 
the name anyway?) ah, yes! Viviani, Mme. Viviani; 
and Miss Lightwood goes to Europe with them, 
right after the ceremony, as companion to the 
bride.” 

“ I am free to say, Deo gratias! ” murmured 
Maurice under his breath. 

“You would have pitied the poor old soul if you 
had seen her,” pursued Lily, trying to straighten 
her smiling face into a sympathetic expression; 
“ she was all tears and remorse over Maggie’s nar¬ 
row escape, and she really showed a depth of feeling 
for which we did not give her credit. She is 
desperately afraid of shipwreck on the high seas, 
and she left all sorts of loving adieux for the entire 
family, not even forgetting her ancient enemy, 
Mr. Maurice Keating,” and Lily courtesied in his 
direction. 


ELEANOR C. DONNELLY. 


49 


May every blessing go with her,” said that 
gentleman, with a very serene and sunshiny face; 
“ and may she enjoy the delights of the Old World 
so thoroughly and so supremely that she may never 
be tempted to return to the annoyances of the 
New! But what are you hiding in your apron, 
Pussy ? ” 

“ Ah! that is the best of it,” and Lily crossed 
the room and knelt by her sister, looking up into 
her pale face with eyes brimful of tenderest affec¬ 
tion. “ Maggie dear, Mr. Cellini is also very, 
very sorry for his share in your sufferings, and he 
has sent Lightwood expressly to say so, and to pre¬ 
sent you in his name with this little token of his 
lasting regret.” 

She threw aside her apron as she spoke and held 
up before them all the lovely little picture of the 
Sacred Heart of Jesus which Margaret had seen in 
the maestro's room the night before the fatal con¬ 
cert. Once more she beheld the sweet Saviour 
pointing to the glowing Heart upon His breast as 
if inviting her to enter into that sanctuary of love 
and peace; once more the pitying eyes and tender 
lips seemed about to speak the words inscribed upon 
the margin: “ I.earn of Me, for I am meek and 
humble of heart”; and this time (thanks to His 
patient and persistent mercy!) she did not reject 
His inspiration, she was not deaf to His pleading 
whispers. The happy tears were shining in her 
eyes as she laid the gift in her lover’s hands. 

“ * Meek and humble of heart,’ ” she said softly, 


f 


A LOST FT IMA DOMNA. 


5 ° 

looking up into his face, “ and only God and my 
confessor know how full my heart has been of anger, 
and pride, and obstinate ambition. Oh, Maurice! 
how much I have to learn before I shall find rest to 
my soul.” 

“ We will study the lesson together, dear love,” 
was his grave and gentle answer; “ we will go like 
little ignorant children, day after day, to learn in 
that sacred school; and surely at last when we ask 
the Master and His holy Mother to bless our hum¬ 
ble wedding feast, He will not refuse to change the 
water into wine, but will draw us closer and closer 
to Himself, and make us henceforth the faithful 
servants of His meek and lowly Heart.” 



\/ 

ANNA HANSON DORSEY. 


Mrs. Anna Hanson Dorsey was born in Georgetown, 
D. C., December 17th, 1815, and descends from a number 
of the most brilliant and patriotic Colonial and Revolution¬ 
ary families of Maryland. She is a convert to the Catholic 
faith, having been received into the Church by the Rev. 
Louis Regis Deluol several years after her marriage with 
Lorenzo Dorsey, Esq. 

Mrs. Dorsey is the pioneer of Catholic light literature in 
the United States, and her works, from her first story. 
“The Student of Blenheim Forest,” to her last book, 
“Palms,” have enjoyed a never-diminishing popularity. 



The list is a long one, including: “The Oriental 
Pearl,” “May Brooke,” “ The Young Countess,” “Tears 
on the Diadem,” “ Woodreve Manor.” “The Sister 
of Charity,” “Mona the Vestal," “Nora Brady’s 
Vow,” “Dummy,” “Fair Play is a Jewel,” “The 
Flemmings,” “Coaina, ” “The Old Gray Rosary,” 
“Tangled Paths,” “Guy the Leper,” “The Heiress of 
Carrigmona,” “Adrift.” “Zoe’s Daughter,” “Beth’s 
Promise,” “Ada's Trust,” “Warp and Woof,” “The 
Old House atGlenaran,” “The Fate of the Dane,” “The 
Mad Penitent of Todi,” “ The Story of Manuel;” three 
admirable juveniles, “Tom Boy,” “Two Ways,” “The 
Snow Angel;” and finally her crowning achievement, 
“ Palms,” pronounced by all the critics to be the equal of 
“ Ben-Hur,” and by some its superior. 

During the late Civil War Mrs. Dorsey was an earnest 
lover and ardent advocate of the Union cause, and her burn¬ 
ing patriotism found vent in two ringing lyrics : “ They're 

Comin,’ Grandad, A Tale of East Tennessee,” and “ Men 
of the Land.’ ’ And her k ‘ Mother and Son '' was said to be 
the best piece of literature evoked by the Custer Massacre. 

She has been the recipient of the highest honors that 
the Church in America can confer, being a Laetare 
Medallist. Her work has been twice especially blessed 
from Rome, and the tribute recently paid her by the Bishops 
is one of the most highly-prized happenings of her life. 

She has been a widow for many years and lives at her 
home on Washington Heights, Washington, D. C., crowned 
with years and honors, and surrounded by her children, her 
grandchildren, and her great-grandchildren. 


ZTbe /H>ab penitent of XTobu 


BY ANNA HANSON DORSEY. 

I. 

It is near sunset as two men stand talking on one 
of the lower terraces of the public garden of an old 
Umbrian town, which, perched on the mountain 
side, looks down, with its time-worn walls and tur¬ 
rets, like a grim warden over the beautiful valley 
below, where the Tiber and the Naga unite their 
waters and flow peacefully through fertile meadows 
and shadowy solitudes, lending brightness to the 
scene and musical echoes to the air; where, in more 
shallow places, the stream, made impetuous by 
obstructions, dashes in wild eddies and wreaths of 
foam over the grotesque rocks which by some freak 
of nature pave its bed. The glow of sunset is over 
all: a tint of rose-color here, flashes of gold there; 
and farther away, on the sides of the rugged moun¬ 
tains, soft purple shadows creep slowly up, to throw 
a twilight mantle over the shining mists that like 
bridal veils crown their summits. The perfume of 
roses and jessamine makes the air drowsy with fra- 

53 


54 


THE MAD PENITENT OF TOD I, 


grance, and the first trills of the nightingale are 
heard in snatches from the leafy coverts. 

Suddenly the silvery chime of a convent bell, 
higher up the mountain than the old city, floats 
out on the hushed air, repeating to heaven and 
earth the oft-told story of the Incarnation and the 
glory of Mary; then the deep-throated bell of the 
Cathedral, and that of St. Francis Assisi strike in, 
the air trembling and pulsing with their notes as 
the Angelus sweeps heavenward, while a solemn 
stillness falls upon the city, upon the gay pleasure- 
seekers in the gardens, upon the groups chattering 
and laughing around the fountains; upon little 
children, and proud cavaliers, noble dames, peas¬ 
ants, and the toil-worn sons of labor; and all, with 
one accord, saint and sinner alike, kneel in honor 
of that supreme moment which announced to the 
world a Saviour. 

The two men rise from the reverently whispered 
prayer, Imd turn to ascend the broad marble steps 
leading to the gardens. They are near the top; 
but, reluctant to leave a view so beautiful, pause, 
and turn again towards the valley. One of them 
is past middle age, a man of grave, abstracted, but 
gentle countenance; the other, in the first glow of 
early manhood, with dark, soul-lit eyes, finely 
chiselled aquiline features, and a dreamy expression 
which harmonizes well with the clear pallor of his 
complexion. The elder man had spent his life in 
endeavoring to master the science of the stars. 
His companion, a Florentine, was already pluming 


ANNA HANSON DORSEY . 


55 


his poet-wings for sublime flights which would one 
day fill the world with his fame. Both stand silent, 
the astrologer thinking of the hour which will 
triumphantly verify his calculations, the poet steep¬ 
ing his soul in the glowing loveliness outspread 
before him, when suddenly wild shrieks fill the air, 
people rush hither and thither, as if seeking safety; 
some, in their blind haste get too near the edge of 
the terrace, lose their footing and roll, spinning 
over and over, to the bottom; but there is no one 
to laugh at them—the panic is too universal. 

The two friends hasten forward, and have scarcely 
reached the last step when two spirited Andalusian 
horses, harnessed to a light magnificent chariot of a 
new fashion, dash towards them; their driver, a 
handsome young man in richly embroidered gar¬ 
ments of garnet velvet, with heavy chains of gold 
about his neck, his long dark hair flying backwards 
on the wind, trying in vain to curb them. His 
companion—a female—whose jewels and superb 
attire glitter and flash in the last level rays of the 
sun, with white agonized face clings shrieking to his 
arm, impeding his efforts to rein in the frightened 
animals, whose course leads direct towards a narrow 
belt of olives and ilex which grow on the very 
borders of a precipice overlooking the valley a 
hundred feet below. 

With one impulse the friends spring forward, and 
at the risk of their lives seize the horses’ heads, and 
the Florentine with a quick motion throws his cloak 
over their wild, fieiy eyes: the sudden movement, 


56 THE MAD PENITENT OF TODI. 

the sudden darkness, check their mad flight, and 
they fall back upon their haunches, their silken coats 
covered with foam, their limbs trembling and con¬ 
vulsed; then he passes his long soft hand gently 
over their faces, speaking caressingly to the fright¬ 
ened creatures, smooths and pats them on shoulder 
and flank, until at last they stand quiet. Many 
persons—the danger past—now press around with 
zealous offers of assistance; and the gentleman, 
having descended from the chariot and led his com¬ 
panion to a grassy bank, directs some workmen, 
who stand by, to lead the horses to his stables, 
throwing them several broad gold pieces to ensure 
the safe conduct of his equipage. Having seen that 
his horses step off quietly, he turns—not to the 
frightened woman, trembling and sobbing hysteri¬ 
cally where he left her, and from whom other 
women stand aloof—but to find his preservers, who 
are just turning into a shaded alley which leads by 
a short cut to the street. Walking swiftly forward, 
he overtakes them, and, saluting them courteously, 
holds out his hand, and thanks them in earnest lan¬ 
guage for saving his companion and himself from a 
certain and terrible death. But the outstretched 
hand is unnoticed, and the older of the two men 
replies in coldly courteous words that “ they de¬ 
serve no thanks for obeying a humane impulse.” 

Chagrined at the repulse, the young cavalier, 
with the blood rising hotly to his face, hands them 
his card, saying: “ If I can ever requite the service 
done me to-day, present or send this to my 


ANNA HANSON DORSEY. 


57 


address then, turning on his heel with haughty 
mien, he walks away. 

“ I see by the flush upon thy cheek, Alighieri, 
that thou art shocked by my rudeness.” 

“ I must confess to the fact, Maestro; for that 
is as handsome and fair-spoken a cavalier as I ever 
saw. 

“ Yes, he’s handsome, and he’s fair-spoken, 
more’s the pity; and he’s not only of gentle birth, 
but the only son of the richest man in Umbria,— 
more’s the pity again.” 

“ Why, may I ask ? ” 

“ Because his position and gold give him great 
power to do evil, for which he has a large capacity, 
and he loses no opportunity to follow the impulse.” 

“ Dear Maestro, art thou not severe on the follies 
of youth? ” 

“ Towards the follies of youth I am lenient, but 
I must judge a man by his virtues or vices. Listen, 
Alighieri: that man whose life we have just saved 
is Jacques dei Benedetti, the greatest profligate of 
the age; he is breaking his old father’s heart by his 
wasteful profusion and his shameless pleasures—” 

“ And the lady-” 

“ Faugh! do not name her. She is lost to 
virtue, to shame, and to all womanliness, and yet 
he dares to flaunt her in jewels and rich raiment, 
which are the price of sin, before the eyes of the 
fair matrons and virgins of Todi. It had been 
better, perhaps, had we let them be dashed to 
pieces.” 



58 THE MAD PENITENT OP TODL 

“ If God, the All-seeing, were not over all!” 
said Alighieri, making the sign of the cross. “ The 
future is a sealed book to us.” 

“ Well! if Jacques dei Benedetti is preserved 
this day for any good end, it will be a miracle,” 
said the elder man, laughing. “ Don’t under¬ 
stand, because I am incredulous, that I am not 
willing it should be so; for the Church hath saints 
whose beginning was not a whit better than his; 
but such things are hard to realize.” 

“ The man hath touched me strangely, and I will 
offer a decade of Ave Marias daily for him,” said 
Alighieri. 

“ Our blessed Lady loves to win such triumphs; 
may th yAves be blessed! ” said the Maestro, lifting 
his velvet cap, and glancing upward for an instant; 
but in that one glance he saw, pillowed on a fold of 
purple cloud, the evening star just risen from 
behind the mountain. “ I would have thee come 
with me to my eyrie, Alighieri, but the stars are 
beginning to come out, and I must be vigilant lest 
I lose the first appearance of the new planet.” 

“ Thou hast yet faith ? ” 

“ Yes, unless the heavens fall,” said the astrolo¬ 
ger, fixing a look of rapt belief on the blue depths 
above. 

This man, Bartolomeo Tasti, had spent the best 
years of his life in studying the movements of the 
heavenly bodies, and it was said that he was master 
of the more occult science of astrology. It is 
certain that many of his predictions had been veri- 


ANNA HANSON DORSEY. 


59 


fied, and the common mind regarded him with awe, 
as one whose knowledge of hidden things was indis¬ 
putable; but he, pursuing the even tenor of his 
way, waited only for the appearance of the new 
planet, to crown his labors with triumph. 

“ I would fain go with thee to thy quiet eyrie, 
Maestro, if only to read the poetry of the heavens, 
but I have an engagement at the house of one of thy 
citizens, to whom I brought letters.” 

‘ ‘ Keep watch and ward over thy heart, Alighieri; 
for there’s a beautiful maiden in the house of Gon- 
dolfo the banker.” 

“ So I have heard. But how didst thou divine 
my destination so truly ? ” 

“ No divination in the matter. I met Gondolfo 
to-day and he told me that he had invited thee this 
evening; but I had forgotten it until thou didst 
speak of thy engagement.” 

With a warm grasp of the hand the friends sep¬ 
arated. The young Florentine had heard much of 
the beautiful Julia from Father Giovanni, a monk 
of St. Francis Assisi, whose monastery crowned 
one of the hills back of the town. “ She will 
devote herself to Heaven,” the good monk said, 
folding his hands with a smile of complacency; 
“ such a soul is indeed a true daughter of our 
blessed St. Francis.” 

And Alighieri thought, as he saw her an hour 
afterwards moving among her guests with winning 
smiles and graceful mien, clothed in the rich attire 
befitting her station, and decorated with the old 


6o 


THE MAD PENITENT OF TODL 


jewels of her house, that she far surpassed the ideal 
he had formed of her, and could but sigh that so 
radiant a creature should seclude herself in a con¬ 
vent; such perfection, his poetic mind imagined, 
would win more souls to Heaven in the world than 
she could hope to do by austerities and prayers in 
the cloister, the Italians even then having a saying 
that “ a beautiful woman is the thought of God.” 

So, as on one set apart for Heaven, he gazed, 
until her fair image was imprinted on his imagina¬ 
tion so vividly, that in later years, under the form 
of Beatrice, the world saw her in the “ Divine 
Comedy.” 

He lingered some days longer in Todi, studying 
the marvellous paintings and sculptures of Guido of 
Sienna, of Cimabue and Giotto, and seeking in the 
monastery and convent chapels scenes in the life 
of the beloved patron Francis. And here, wander¬ 
ing through the delicious scenery, he pored over 
St. Bonaventure’s “ Legend of St. Francis,” and 
felt his heart moved by the account of the saint’s 
last hours, “ when the swallows, those little birds 
that love the light and hate darkness, though the 
night was falling when he breathed his last, came 
in a great multitude, filling the windows and roof.” 

Likewise did St. Francis find immortal honor in 
the “ Divine Comedy,” which seems part of the 
glory with which he is crowned in heaven. 

Several times after the evening spent at her 
house, Alighieri saw the beautiful maiden at the 
early Masses, sometimes coming from Holy Com- 


ANNA NANS ON DOjRSEY. 


61 

munion, her eyes downcast, her bared,* perfect 
hands folded, her countenance clothed in such 
peace as the world cannot give — unseeing, and 
unthinking of all except the heavenly Guest who 
abode in her heart. 

And occasionally he met, either driving or on 
the promenade, the handsome cavalier Benedetti, 
always conspicuous for his perfect physique, the 
bold beauty of his face, his rich attire, and the good¬ 
nature which threw bows and smiles to his friends 
or a handful of silver to the beggars. The poet’s 
heart was strangely drawn towards him, why he did 
not seek to analyze, knowing how impossible a 
friendship would be between them; but he never 
failed to whisper the Ave Marias he had vowed for 
his conversion. 


II. 

It is early summer, and in the three years that 
have glided by the world appears to have moved on 
without change in the old city perched on the 
mountain side. The games are over; it is very 
quiet; every one is complaining of the dulness, and 
weary to death for a sensation. 

But it is always a deathlike stillness which pre¬ 
cedes the earthquake, and one day a rumor suddenly 
shook the old city that made men turn pale and 
hold their breath; it was that, at last, Jacques dei 

* In Catholic countries it is a custom for ladies to unglove 
during Mass. 



62 


THE MAD PENITENT OF TODI. 


Benedetti had ruined his father, and there was 
nothing left except the house that sheltered them, 
and that only because it had been inalienably settled 
upon him and his descendants by his grandfather ! 

One morning, shortly after this, the elder Bene¬ 
detti was found seated at his desk, his account- 
books open before him, with pen in hand—dead. 
His son was instantly summoned. He had 
avoided his father’s presence ever since the crash— 
the silent anguish of the old man hurting him more 
than the most violent reproaches would have done. 
He hastily entered the library, not knowing what 
to expect—for the servant who called him was 
incoherent from terror—and stood arrested by the 
shock, as if turned to stone. His eyes, starting from 
his head, gazed upon the staring eyes of the dead; 
his face grew white and drawn, while the veins in 
his temples and neck stood out like whipcords. 
No tear relieved the remorse that stung him, no 
passionate outcry relieved his grief, no whispered 
prayer escaped his lips, as he stood there motionless 
before the cold, silent figure upon whose wide-open 
eyes the expiring lamplight flickered, imparting to 
them a life-like expression of wrath and reproach. 
Suddenly the flame shot up and expired, and the 
stricken man beheld only the sad, pathetic expres¬ 
sion left upon the dead face by the last throb of a 
broken heart. 

With a cry of anguish Jacques threw himself 
upon his knees, and, lifting the cold, stiff hand, 
pressed it to his burning forehead, and registered a 


ANNA HANSON DORSE Y. 63 

vow—a vow which he fulfilled to the letter. Then 
he stooped and kissed the dead man’s feet; he 
dared not desecrate that poor, sorrowful face by a 
caress—he who had brought such bitterness, even 
death itself, to him who had never reproached or 
pained him by a harsh word. 

He secluded himself in his own apartment, leav¬ 
ing to the good monks of St. Francis, to whom his 
father had been a generous benefactor, and a few of 
the most trusted servants of the house, all the 
necessary arrangements for the last rites. Masses 
were daily offered for the repose of the departed 
soul, and all that the faithful could do, all that the 
Church could do, through the communion of saints, 
was done to win for it a place of “ refreshment, 
light, and peace.” The funeral, as was customary 
in Italy, took place by torchlight. One figure 
wrapped in a black cloak, walked by the bier, and 
while the priests and monks chanted the solemn 
services of the dead, no tear, no sign of emotion 
was visible in his white, rigid face. People touched 
each other to notice him, and wondered at his 
heartlessness; “ he is either turned to stone,” they 
said, “ or he is dead to all natural feeling.” Ah, 
they did not know. 

But there was one present, closely veiled, who 
watched him with the deepest pity, from whose 
eyes tears flowed, and from whose heart pure 
prayers ascended for his conversion and consolation. 
This was Julia Gondolfo, who attended the funeral 
with her father—between whom and the deceased 


64 THE MAD PENITENT OF TODI. 

a life-long friendship had existed. She beheld 
under the still calm of those features a stern, 
remorseful grief, too deep for expression, and she 
would fain have whispered words of sympathy; but 
that being impossible, she could only pray, and oh! 
how earnestly, for she knew he had sinned deeply, 
and her heart was filled with a great compassion for 
him, lest without consolation or divine help he 
might despair and end his own life. Every one was 
against him; all blamed him; but he had been her 
playmate once, and she remembered the gentle 
traits of his character, especially his kindness to 
the poor, and his merry companionship. 

The gentle maiden need have had no dread on one 
point. Jacques had no thought of self-destruction; 
on the contrary, he meant to live and repair the for¬ 
tune he had wasted, and the honor of his house; 
this was what he had vowed, and this was to be 
henceforth the motif of his existence. He would 
live only for this, and accomplish it, or die in the 
attempt. 

He disappeared from men’s eyes; the gay 
resorts of pleasure saw him no longer; his splendid 
horses, equipages, and jewels were sold; those who 
had ministered to his sinful pleasures were peremp¬ 
torily, and without appeal, dismissed, and of the 
small remnant of a fortune inherited from his grand¬ 
father, and the result of his sales, he formed the 
nucleus of a new business. None so attentive to 
his affairs, none so exact as he, and none so frugal! 
To Venice, to Florence, to Marseilles and other 


ANNA NANS ON DORSEY. 


65 


marts he journeyed, and one or two fortunate 
speculations brought him immense gains. Grave 
and quiet in his demeanor, he was never seen in 
public except at Mass, or sometimes in the evening 
wandering alone in the more retired parts of the 
public gardens, his avoidance of all sympathy and 
companionship keeping away his former friends. 

Prosperity crowned his energetic efforts, and in 
two or three years he had nearly retrieved his losses 
and the honor of his old house, which still carried 
on its business in his father’s name. He began 
now to relax somewhat the severity of his self-im¬ 
posed isolation from society, and one day he 
accepted Count Gondolfo’s invitation to dine with 
his daughter and himself—with Julia, who yet told 
her beads and offered her Communions for him. 
Living so long apart from all social intercourse, it 
is not strange that he should have been at once 
attracted, fascinated by the exquisite loveliness and 
gentle grace of his young hostess; he felt as if 
under the influence of a mysterious spell, not only 
while in her presence, but afterwards; thoughts 
and feelings heretofore strangers took possession of 
his mind, and again seeking her, drawn by an 
irresistible impulse, he found himself even more 
bewildered and fascinated than at first; he could 
not define his sensations, nor recognize the fact that 
it was the dawning of the first virtuous love he had 
ever known. 

But how one so fair and saintly in her life could 
ever consent to become the bride of the man whose 


66 


THE MAD PENITENT OF TODI. 


record was stained with sins and vices which had 
broken his father’s heart, became the topic of the 
day in Todi; for Jacques, determined to woo and 
win her, had made known his sentiments to her 
father, to whom he furnished proofs that he had 
more than retrieved his fortunes, and had put aside 
forever the vices of his earlier life, which, he 
declared, were more the result of an undisciplined 
youth than of a malicious preference for sin; and 
now he wanted a wife like Julia, who, like an angel 
by his side, would lead him to a better and higher 
life. 

Count Gondolfo probed deeply the past history 
of his daughter’s suitor, and, with stern insistence 
to know clearly much that had been only half re¬ 
vealed by rumors and gossip, questioned him with¬ 
out mercy. But he was equal to the ordeal; he 
frankly acknowledged his guilty peccadilloes, but 
defied the strictest investigation of his life since he 
had turned his back on the follies and sins of the 
past. The old Count, at length satisfied of his sin¬ 
cerity, felt that he might trust his daughter’s happi¬ 
ness to his keeping, and consented to her receiving 
his addresses, saying: “ Thy cause must stand upon 
thy own merits, Benedetti. I shall not interfere 
either for or against. My daughter is old enough 
to judge for herself, and is too precious for me to 
want to be separated from her; therefore do not 
count in the least upon me.” 

“ Never fear, Count Gondolfo,” said the other, 
proudly; “ I must have a willing bride or none. 


ANNA HANSON DORSEY. 67 

Julia is my first love; if she in turn loves me, I 
shall be the happiest man living. Good night.” 

Julia did not reject her lover’s suit, neither did 
she accept him; she only asked in shy, broken 
words for time to consider his proposal. The 
delay would have chafed his proud spirit beyond 
endurance, had not the soft blushes that mantled 
her cheeks, and the quickened throbbings of her 
heart, which stirred the rich lace upon her bodice, 
assured him; and he yielded with tender deference 
to her request, hopeful and confident as to what the 
final answer would be. Meantime the gentle 
maiden did not propose to settle this momentous 
question by her own unaided judgment. She had 
Masses offered, commenced a novena to St. Francis, 
and asked the prayers of the saintly religious of Santa 
Agnese and of the Franciscan monks, and of many 
faithful souls among her poor, for her intention. 

The rumor that she was betrothed to Jacques 
dei Benedetti penetrated convent and cloister, and, 
although none questioned her, they understood 
what her “ intention ’’was,—and, truth to say, the 
holy souls were opposed to it, for had they not 
always believed her a virgin too fair and pure for 
any earthly love, and that she was surely destined 
to become the bride of Heaven ? The Virgin with¬ 
out stain, the sweet Mother of Jesus, was besieged 
by the devotion of all who best loved Julia, arid 
feared that she was rushing to the destruction of 
her earthly happiness; and on the day the novena 
ended, never except on a saint’s fesia had so many 


68 


THE MAD PENITENT OF TODI. 


thronged to receive and offer Holy Communion that 
all danger and evil be averted from her whom many 
of them looked upon as a victim to the wicked 
designs of an unprincipled man,—notwithstanding 
which they prayed ardently for his conversion, for 
(as they said) if any one ever needed such prayers 
and the saving grace of God, it was Jacques dei 
Benedetti. 

But there was no miraculous interposition—no 
sign vouchsafed to show either the approval or the 
displeasure of Heaven, and the betrothal was duly 
announced, and celebrated with great splendor by 
a superb entertainment. The nuptials followed 
shortly after, and never had so lovely and magnifi¬ 
cently dressed a bride been seen in Todi; never a 
bridegroom so noble in appearance, so perfect in 
manly beauty. But as the grand nuptial Mass 
went on, every one felt a sensation of thankfulness, 
and drew a long breath of relief when they saw the 
Sacred Host laid upon the bridegroom’s tongue; 
and the remark of an old woman at the church 
door, afterwards, represents the sentiment which 
had generally prevailed at the moment. 

“ Thanks to our blessed Lady, he’s not given 
over body and soul to Satan, or he’d have dropped 
dead when he received,” said she to a friend. 

“ They don’t always,” mumbled the other old 
crone. “ Let them wait as cares to, to see the 
end of it. God has His ways and we have ours, 
and they are as far apart as the East and the 
West! ” 


ANNA NANS ON DORSEY, 69 

That was a grand truth: “ God’s ways are not as 
our ways.” 

And of all the gossip and talk that day, there 
was nothing came so near the truth as the saying of 
that toothless old woman. 

III. 

The marriage was a happy one. Jacques idol¬ 
ized his wife, and revered in her the Christian 
virtues which made her life more beautiful than 
that of other women. He accompanied her to 
High Mass on Sundays and the great festas; because 
he desired to make her happy, and he loved to 
watch her in her rich attire, more beautiful than 
any pictured saint upon the walls. It was not long, 
however, before she discovered that although his 
life was morally changed he never approached the 
Sacraments, and whenever he alluded to religion, 
it was in light, careless terms, which pained and 
saddened her. 

Benedetti was now jurisconsult of Umbria, a 
dignity conferred upon him by the reigning prince 
in reward for some successful achievement in finance 
which had greatly benefited the royal treasury, and 
he felt it to be due his position to take the lead 
universally conceded to him. With all his pride, 
he was never haughty or arrogant; the same good¬ 
nature and generosity characterized him now as in 
the past, and he dealt even justice in all cases over 
which he had jurisdiction. Upon his wife he 


7° 


THE MAD PENITENT OF TODI. 


lavished the most profuse and magnificent gifts: the 
richest stuffs from Genoa, from Persia, and Lyons; 
the most cunning embroideries from India, the most 
rare and costly laces from Venice and Flanders; 
opals, pearls, and diamonds set in rare devices in 
gold, he offered as love-gifts to her; the most 
costly equipages and the finest of Arabian horses 
were imported for her use, and it was his pleasure 
and will that she should appear in magnificent attire 
at the entertainments, the games, and the public 
gardens, where her peerless beauty made her the 
cynosure of every eye. 

Not only was he generous in this prodigal fashion 
to her, but he won the hearts of the good religious 
on every side by his largesse to their charities and 
his alms to the poor. If a new altar was to be 
erected, or new mosaics were needed, another wing 
to be added to the monastery of St. Francis, or an 
orphanage established, or stained glass from Venice 
for an abbot’s memorial, his was the hand that 
responded, partly because he knew it would please 
his wife, but more because he was by nature lavish 
and fond of giving; and he was blessed and prayed 
for as no other sinner in Todi had ever been before. 

And these prayers! Do we not read in St. John’s 
vision of golden vials in which were the prayers of 
the saints? Why then should one ever faint with 
despondency, even after years of unanswered 
prayers ? 

Within a year of her marriage, Julia’s father died, 
leaving his daughter a large fortune; he blessed his 


ANNA HANSON DORSEY. 


71 


children, for he loved Benedetti as his own son, 
and besought him to watch over and guard his 
daughter’s happiness; then, fortified and consoled 
by the rites of the Church, he passed away in hope. 

In Julia’s heart, consolation mingled with grief; 
it was her sweet privilege, she knew, to help him 
by her prayers and more solemn devotions; that, 
although separated for a season, her intercourse 
with him would remain unbroken. But Benedetti, 
gazing sadly upon the white, drawn features of the 
old patrician, as the flicker of the blessed tapers 
trembled over their motionless calm, thought: 
44 And is this the end ? Death, the grave, and for¬ 
getfulness! Rather let us enjoy life while it lasts; 
let us eat, drink, and be merry! Faugh! the 
thought of becoming a carcass sickens me”; and 
he left the death-chamber to go out into the sun¬ 
shine and scented air of his garden, his only grief 
being the tears which he knew must flow from the 
eyes of his wife, and the shadow that death would 
throw across his home. He hated gloom; he 
breathed freely only when in an atmosphere of gay, 
stirring life, and surrounded by everything that 
could charm the senses or delight the taste. But 
the period of mourning was inevitable; it was one 
of the penalties of his rank and station, and he 
determined to go through it with the best grace he 
might. 

One year of intolerable weariness to Benedetti 
passed by; several times he determined to leave 
home for a month or two, but he could not bear to 


7 2 


THE MAD PENITENT OF TODI. 


absent himself from his gentle wife, more beautiful 
in her sadness than even in the sunshine of happi¬ 
ness, and her efforts to be cheerful for his sake were 
so full of pathos that he would rather have seen her 
weep. 

A few friends were admitted during these days of 
mourning; and her drives usually terminated at the 
convent of Santa Agnese or the monastery of St. 
Francis, where, in sweet converse with the saintly 
men and women who had devoted themselves by 
heroic vows, body and soul, to Heaven, the hours 
passed swiftly and happily by. Every morning 
found her humbly kneeling before the altar of St. 
Stephen the Martyr, offering her Communion and 
devotions for her father and her husband. Nor 
were her poor forgotten: in seeking to alleviate 
their sufferings, and in other works of mercy, her 
time was well and profitably occupied. 

But as the days passed on, Benedetti, who had 
nothing to console him beyond the perishable 
things of earth, grew restive. The silence and 
gloom of his house became more and more intoler¬ 
able to him; his patience had been rare, but it was 
now nearly worn out, and he began to absent him¬ 
self from home, frequently not returning until far 
into the night, and sometimes not until daydawn. 

Julia observed these signs with sad surprise; he 
was not less kind or affectionate in his manner 
towards her, but—he was seeking pleasures outside 
his own home. Soon she noticed that under some 
slight pretext or other, often without any, he would 


ANNA HANSON DORSEY. 


73 


hurry from her presence, leaving her lonely, and 
saddened by vague apprehensions. One evening 
he came in with reddened face, his speech thick, 
and his gait unsteady, doing his best in a fond, 
maudlin way, to conceal his real condition. She 
was very gentle towards him, nay, tender in her 
great pity; and when, under pretext of not feeling 
well, he retired, she was thankful. 

She spent the hours of that sorrowful night in 
questioning her own heart severely, and praying 
earnestly for guidance. “ I have been selfish!” 
was the result of her self-examination; “ I have ex¬ 
pected too much of my husband, who finds his great¬ 
est happiness in the pleasures of the world, and 
flies from solitude and devotion as something fit 
only for priests and nuns. This is no way to win 
an influence over him which will lead him to better 1 
and higher things. I will henceforth forget myself, 
and bury my griefs for his sake; and oh! Blessed 
Lady of Sorrows, help me by thy intercession; pray 
for my husband, that the fruit of thy Son’s Passion 
and thine own unspeakable sorrows may not be lost 
on him.” 

Two or three days after this, when Benedetti had 
quite recovered from the fumes of the strong foreign 
wines he had drank that night, and to the use of 
which he was unaccustomed,—for with all his faults, 
he was temperate in the use of liquors,—he drove 
out, and after his return appeared on the promenade 
of the gardens in his usual way, elegantly attired, 
dignified, as became a jurisconsult, and affable to 


74 


THE MAD PENITENT OF TODL 


all. When he returned home, towards his dinner 
hour, with a sort of chill at the thought of what 
would meet him there, what was his surprise to find 
his house brilliantly lighted, and to hear the sound 
of music stealing through the half-closed jalousies ! 
He hastily entered: the fragrance of flowers wel¬ 
comed him ; the sight of their glowing hues, grouped 
with dark greens, decorating the vases and garlanded 
about the pillars, filled his sensuous nature with a 
thrill of ecstasy. He saw no one, and ran up to his 
wife’s dressing-room, where he found her in rich 
attire, decked with his favorite gems, and looking 
more beautiful than ever, as she came forward with 
smiles to greet him. He was overjoyed; never had 
she looked so lovely, so regal; never had such 
brightness and fragrance pervaded his home. 

I am thankful that at last thy penance is 
ended,” he said, embracing her. “ How beautiful 
thou art, bella sposa ! and what an enchanting sur¬ 
prise thou hast prepared for me! Ah,” he said, 
gazing fondly upon her, ” how r much more suitable 
to thy years, than so much praying, and fasting, 
and penance! ” 

“ Penance, dear Jacques! Dost thou ever think 
of penance ? ” she asked, with a smile, smoothing 
the hand which still clasped hers. 

“ Think! Of course I think of it! Howcanlhelp 
it with such a devout little wife! And my father’s 
death gave me penance enough for a life-time,” he 
said, with a sad inflection in his voice. 

“ True, that was a great sorrow,” she said, 


ANNA NANS ON DORSEY. 


75 


raising his hand and leaning her fair cheek upon 
it. 

“ It was, and will be to my dying day, a bitter 
remorse. What more penance wouldst thou have 
the heart to ask for me, bella sJ?osa, than this ? ” 

“ Dear Jacques, my husband, let me do penance 
for thee. I will gladly, and mayhap our dear Lord 
will accept it.” 

“ What a little enthusiast! ” he said, laughing, 
and kissing her hand as he folded her to his breast. 
“ How glad I am that thou didst not live in the 
days of Santa Agnese! Thou wouldst surely have 
won the palm of martyrdom. Do penance for me, 
car a mia , if it will make thee happier; only don’t 
flog thy fair flesh, or torture it with sackcloth. I 
would rather not have such vicarious penance, my 
nightingale.” 

She smiled, and said sweetly, as she left the 
dressing-room: 

“It is time for thee, dear one, to change thy 
dress; a party of friends are to join us at dinner, 
and even now I must hasten down to receive them.” 

“ Company to dinner! ” he exclaimed; “ how 
delicious! ” and she could but smile at his almost 
boyish delight. 

A year passed by after this, and the jurisconsult 
led a life which completely filled out his ideal of 
happiness. The most beautiful woman in Italy— 
had not the artists and poets so crowned her ?—was 
his wife; they loved each other devotedly; there 
seemed to be nothing to cloud his felicity, and 


7 6 


THE MAD PENITENT OF TODI. 


he had retrieved himself in the opinion of his fel¬ 
low-citizens, who, smiling, said to each other: 
“ Aha! our jurisconsult has sowed all his wild oats! 
See what a good and beautiful wife can do for a 
man! ’ * 

As we said before, he was devoted to art, and 
Avas ever ready to assist young and struggling 
artists; and he had the honor of entertaining 
Alighieri. From him he heard ill news of the 
astrologer Tasti. The old star-gazer had gone 
blind, and his heart was broken; his star had not 
yet appeared, and now he could never behold it; 
he was living in actual want, without a friend to see 
to his needs. 

“ My God! ” exclaimed Benedetti, “ to think I 
am rolling in wealth and luxury, while the man who 
saved my life is without bread! Alighieri, pledge 
thyself to do me a favor.” 

“ If I may, most gladly,” answered the poet, 
gravely. 

” Thou mayest if thou wilt; I ask nothing that 
could hurt the most sensitive scruples of a saint,” 
said Benedetti, flushing. 

“ What wouldst thou have, friend?” said the 
sweet-voiced Florentine. 

” I would have thee be my almoner; not really 
to give alms, but to repay a debt I owe to Tasti by 
all the laws of honor and gratitude.” 

“ Ah, I see! ” said Alighieri, a divine smile 
brightening his countenance. 

“ I would settle an annuity upon him for life. 


ANNA NANS ON DORSEY . 


77 


Let him think it is a long-delayed debt due his 
family—make up any harmless romance thou 
mayest about it. / must not appear; for he’d 
throw the money into the fire, and me after it, if 
he could lay hands upon me. Say, wilt thou man¬ 
age this ? ” 

“ I must think it over, and see how best it can 
be done.” 

“ How best ? It does not require a moment’s 
thought. So many thousand ducats are placed in 
thy hands by me, which thou wilt deposit in thy 
own name to the credit of Giovanni Tasti. What 
can be more plain ? ” 

I will, and with a thankful heart that our 
blessed Lady has inspired thee to so help the friend¬ 
less and destitute,” said the Florentine, grasping 
his hand. 

“ It is a debt, and my religion is to pay my 
debts,” replied Benedetti, dryly. ” When will thy 
cursed pride let me pay that which I owe thyself ? ” 

“ Should need overtake me, friend,'I will not fail 
to call upon thee,” answered Alighieri. 

” I trust to thy word; and now to business, for 
I will not sleep until it is all settled.” 

And so it was done, and a divine rest filled 
Alighieri’s compassionate heart, which had been 
torn and grieved beyond measure by the condition 
in which he had found his old friend, whose needs 
he had no power to relieve, his own means being 
barely sufficient to procure him the necessaries of 
life. Now he could leave him in comfort, with an 


78 


THE MAD PENITENT OF TOD I. 


attendant to care for him, and enough to provide 
clothing and any little luxury he might crave; and 
all owing to the noble generosity of a man he had 
once despised, and refused to know, 


IV. 


One bright day, at an hour when he was rarely 
there, Benedetti came home in a gay mood, and 
went with quick steps towards an apartment which 
opened on the garden, where his wife usually spent 
her mornings. The light air he was humming died 
upon his lips as, looking around, he saw no signs of 
her except her empty chair, and a coarse woollen 
garment, that her fair hands had been fashioning 
for one of her poor, lying upon it. 

‘ ‘ Where is your lady ? ” he asked her favorite 
maid, who was seated in a window, busied over a 
piece of embroidery. 

“ My lady has gone to the Cathedral, signor, to 
offer prayers,” she answered. 

“ The fiend fly off with so much praying! ” he 
exclaimed, hotly. “Are you sure it is to the 
Cathedral she is gone? ” 

“ Yes, signor, because she took flowers to lay on 
the old Count’s tomb.” 

“ How long has she been away ? ” 

“ About a half hour, signor.” 

“ There is some chance then of my finding her 
there ? ” 


ANNA NANS ON DORSEY . 


79 


“ I think so, signor.” 

Chafing with impatience, Benedetti rushed off to 
the Cathedral, where, just as he was crossing the 
marble pavement of the wide portico, he heard the 
voice that always fell upon his ear like a strain of 
music say: “ Here! Shall we turn back?” And 
she was beside him, wondering with deep emotion 
if he had come thither for some pious purpose. 

“ Aha, runaway! is it thou ? Turn back ? Not 
for the world. I only came to bring thee away, for 
I have great news for thee, bella sposa . ” 

“ Good, I trust ? ” 

“ Joyous! But I will hold thee in suspense until 
we get home,” he answered, gayly. 

The distance was short between the Cathedral and 
their house; and after Julia had thrown aside her 
veil and mantle, and seated herself, she said: 

“ Now I am ready for the great news.” 

“ Great news indeed! ” he exclaimed, throwing 
himself upon the pillow of an ivory couch that 
stood near her; “ something that I have worn myself 
out to obtain. Thou knowest, bella sposa , that we 
have not had the games at Todi for five years, and 
the theatre is overgrown with moss and weeds, the 
arena a haunt for swine; but next month they are 
to be celebrated, by the royal order, which I 
obtained, in honor of the birth of a son to the king. 
He is so devout and keeps so many monks around 
him, that I had great difficulty in obtaining his 
consent, for he thinks such amusements are bad for 
the morals of the people, a belief which his spiritual 


So 


THE MAD PENITENT OF TODI. 


advisers are at great pains to confirm; but I pre¬ 
vailed this time, and I am determined the games of 
1268 shall be celebrated with a splendor and mag¬ 
nificence never seen before. What sayest thou ? ” 

“ They will make our old town very gay,” she 
answered, with a sinking heart. 

“ Gay! It will belike paradise! I have ordered 
a new gallery to be built for a chosen company, 
among whom the wife of the jurisconsult will shine 
the fairest of them all. The Prince and Princess 
Doria of Rome, the great Minister, Count Taverno, 
and one or two other distinguished persons of the 
Court, I have invited to occupy the gallery with 
thee. It will be a splendid affair, hung with cloth- 
of-gold, and canopied and cushioned with Lyons silk 
of rose-color and blue, spangled, with gold. Aha! 
how proud I shall be to have the world see and 
acknowledge thy beauty! ” 

” O Jacques, why so vain of me ? It pains 
me.” 

“ Pains thee! How can I help being proud of 
thee, sweet love ? The very thought of possessing 
such a treasure—a treasure such as no monarch, if 
he searched the world, could hope to find—makes 
me supremely happy! ” he replied, folding her 
hand to his heart. 

11 Such love is very sweet, but it is too much for 
the creature; we must remember that our God is a 
jealous God, and will have none preferred before 
Him.” 

He dropped her hand, and turned from her with 


ANNA NANS ON DORSEY . 


81 


a cloud upon his brow, and did not speak immedi¬ 
ately; when he did, it was not unkindly: 

“We hear those sayings in the Cathedral. Leave 
them to the monks, and don’t throw cold water, 
albeit it be holy water, into my face when my heart 
runs over with love for thee. I will be good one 
of these days, bella sposa: in fact I am not so bad 
a Christian as some others. Look at old Sacchi, 
for instance, who has prayed his knee-pans off, and 
often goes to Communion! Does he ever give a 
scudi to the poor ? Did he not turn his own son into 
the street, to want and beggary, because he could 
not pay a debt that he owed him ? ’’ 

“ No, thank our dear Lord, thou art not like 
that! ’’ she said, laying her long fair hand upon his 
head. “ But we must not judge.” 

“ What! Not when a fig tree is barren ? Why, 
my gardener, an ignorant peasant, would root it up 
and burn it with the weeds.” 

“Our dear Lord is patient—oh, how patient! 
He alone, who beholds the secrets of hearts, can 
judge with righteousness, ” she said, sweetly. 

“ If the devil don’t get old Sacchi, what is the 
use of being pious ? Here am I always giving to 
the poor and to the Church. I love to give. I 
am never happier than when I am giving. Have I 
not just sent a piece of Venetian lace to the 
Cathedral for the baldachino of Our Lady; and did 
I not only yesterday send a beautiful picture, 
Santa Agnese before the Proconsul , to the convent, 
for their new altar ? ” 


82 


THE MAD PENITENT OF TODI. 


** Our dear Lord will requite all that is done for 
the love of Him,” she said, smoothing back the hair 
from his forehead, and smiling brightly. “ Yes, 
thou art good, my love, according to thy mind; by 
and by Our Lord will show thee His way.” 

“ Wilt thou go to the games ? ” he said, abruptly, 
almost as if he feared she would refuse. 

“ Yes, as thou dost wish it so much. What is 
to be done ? ” 

“ I can scarcely tell thee in order yet. There 
will be comedies, wrestling, dancing, music, races, 
mock fights between the athletes, and what more 
I cannot tell; but thou wilt enjoy it all, my Julia; 
I know thou wilt.” 

She said no more, and Benedetti, wooed by the 
breeze that stole through the jessamine, fell 
asleep. 

“ Enjoy it,” he said. Alas! her splendors, and 
all that her husband imagined ought to make her 
the happiest woman on earth, were simply weary¬ 
ing, irksome trials; she had but one wish upon 
earth, and that was for his conversion; for that she 
endured all things; for that she did penance; for 
that she daily offered her very life to Almighty 
God. 

It must not be supposed that conversations like 
the one just related were of frequent occurrence: it 
was only when his mood presented the opportun¬ 
ity, and then only so long as he appeared willing 
to listen; the moment a shadow darkened his face, 
or a sneer escaped his lips, she would change the 


ANNA HANSON DORSEY. 83 

subject for something more congenial to his gay 
temperament. 

Keen in his perceptions, the proud, pleasure-lov¬ 
ing man was not slow to notice this exercise of 
charity; he made no remarks, but it softened his 
heart yet more tenderly towards her, and made 
more holy and beautiful in his eyes the example of 
her virtues. 

Days and weeks passed by. Todi was full of 
strangers,—the princely, the noble, and wealthy 
citizens from other parts; poets, philosophers, 
comedians, dancers, and wrestlers thronged thither, 
some to witness, others to take part in the games. 
Nothing else was thought of, nothing else was 
talked of. There were those who criticised, and 
others who praised the arrangements; many made 
themselves happy by betting on this, that, or the 
other, while there were not a few who predicted 
failure—on points which ran counter to their advice. 
There were whispers, too, about certain repairs at 
the amphitheatre having been too hastily made for 
safety; among them the jurisconsult’s gallery, which 
was built upon the old beams of the original one, 
that had been blackening there in the sun and 
rains of a century; but it had been examined by 
competent persons, and pronounced safe; and it 
was being painted and gilded by artists from Rome. 
***** 

There is a soft luminous radiance behind the 
mountains, about whose shadowy sides the blue 
mists still linger; jets of glittering light shoot up 


8 4 


THE MAD PENITENT OF TOD I. 


towards the violet-tinted and rose-colored clouds as 
if from a sea of gold; the nightingales sing sweet 
fitful songs in their bosky coverts; the river sweeps 
through the valley like a whispered prayer; the dew 
spangles leaf and flower. Oh, how brightly dawns 
this day upon the old Umbrian city—the opening 
day of the games! 

From the side door of a lofty and elegant dwell¬ 
ing, a lady, closely wrapped in mantle and veil, 
came out. With swift, light steps, she approached 
the Cathedral just as one of the Fathers of St. 
Francis ascended the altar to begin the celebration 
of the Holy Sacrifice. It was Julia dei Benedetti, 
and those who saw her that morning when she 
received the Sacred Host never forgot the radiant 
expression of her face, a radiance so solemn and 
angelic that had it been the Viaticum they might 
have been pardoned for believing that light from 
the half-opened portals of heaven was shining upon 
her. 

The jurisconsult wished his beautiful wife to 
appear on this the opening day of the games in her 
most magnificent apparel, in her rarest jewels; in 
obedience to his request, so emphatically made 
that it savored of command, she arrayed herself in 
robes fashioned of rare and costly silk of pale 
delicate color; films of Venice lace shaded her 
bosom and arms, and fell draped about her in misty 
folds; pearls and fire-opals from India gleamed in 
her hair, around her throat and arms, and in her 
ears. Never had she looked so lovely, and when 


ANNA NAN SON DORSEY. 


85 


Benedetti ran up to her dressing-room to speak to 
her, she happened to be standing where a ray of 
sunshine slanted over her. He paused an instant 
in mute admiration and astonishment: even he had 
never imagined she could look like this. She held 
out her hand with a smile of welcome, he clasped 
it a moment, then, bending his knee, kissed it, 
saying: 

“ Nay! hast thou just stepped out of paradise ? 
I can scarcely dare more than offer homage to an 
angel.” 

“ O Jacques! why so foolish? Wouldst thou turn 
my head with thy flatteries? ” she answered, with a 
little laugh, making him rise. “ I am only I; all 
these beautiful things in which I am arrayed are thy 
gifts and worn for love of thee. Ah! why should 
I be vain ? ’ * 

“ If thou wert clad in sackcloth, would it change 
thy beauty, thy grace, thy perfect form, bella sposa ? 
No! I will then be proud and vain of thee—enough 
for thee and for myself.” 

“ How soon are we to go ? ” she asked. 

“ I just ran up, bella sposa , to say that it is 
utterly impossible for me to accompany thee to the 
amphitheatre. I have been appointed to receive the 
members of the royal family that are here; but thy 
cousin, the Count Pelchioni, and his wife, are com¬ 
ing to go with thee.” 

“ Ah! I am sorry to lose thy attendance. But 
the Prince and Princess Doria—who will receive 


them ? ’ ’ 


86 


THE MAD PENITENT OF TODI. 


“ I forgot to mention yesterday that they have 
been recalled to Rome by the illness of their only 
son.” 

“ Ah, how unfortunate! Our blessed Lady 
grant they may find him out of danger. But thou 
wilt join us after thy official duties are over ? ” she 
said. 

“ Yes, yes. The Count knows our gallery, and 
I have stationed a guard there to prevent those who 
have no right from crowding upon our party. 
Farewell, sweet one, until we meet again.” 

He kissed her almost reverently, and after one 
fond lingering look hurried away. 

It was a glorious day, clear and balmy; the awn¬ 
ing which formed the temporary roof of the amphi¬ 
theatre tempered the glare of the sun to a pleasant 
light, and surely there was never assembled a gayer 
or more light-hearted crowd than that which filled 
the circular tiers of seats, from the arena to the roof. 
It was one shimmering, beautiful mass of color, 
the richly-decorated gallery of the jurisconsult being 
the centre of attraction when his beautiful wife 
entered. The comedy was a great success; the 
plaudits of the people and strains of music thun¬ 
dered together, and only subsided when a troupe of 
Egyptian dancing-girls floated out to perform a 
measure to the sound of weird, wild harmonies. 
Benedetti had not yet appeared; he was evidently 
detained by something imperative, for the royal 
seats were all filled; and it was not until a chariot- 
race began that Julia, who had been restlessly 


ANNA NANS ON D ORSE Y, 


87 


watching for him, caught a glimpse of him forcing 
his way towards her through the surging crowd. 
There was a proud smile upon his lips as he saw 
how conspicuously her beauty shone in that great 
assemblage, and how well the splendor of her sur¬ 
roundings became her. But just as he lifted his 
jewelled cap to her, there came a sudden, crackling 
sound, shrieks filled the air, and that richly-decor¬ 
ated structure, that gallery, with its freight of life 
and beauty, fell, a wild, heaped-up ruin, into the 
arena. With a piercing cry, he sprang to the 
rescue of his wife over the heads and shoulders of 
the crowd; and no man stayed his mad progress, 
for all knew him, and understood the awful blow 
which had fallen upon him. 

At length he reached the spot, and on the edge 
of the mutilated, shrieking heap, crushed and 
benumbed, he found her who was all the world to 
him, and, lifting her tenderly, he conveyed her to 
a place of safety, the crowd making way and giving 
what assistance they could. She still breathed, 
and, unclosing her eyes, fixed a tender gaze upon 
his agonized face. He laid her down, her head still 
reposing upon his breast, and began to cut open her 
bodice, but with a blush that crimsoned even her 
neck, she whispered, “Not here! not here! ” and 
indicated by a gesture that he should take her 
farther away from the crowd. Again raising her in 
his arms, and forbidding any to follow, he bore her 
to a green, shaded spot, cut open the pearl-em¬ 
broidered tissues of her festive robe, and tore away 


88 


THE MAD PENITENT OF TODI. 


the fine silk and linen of her under garments, that 
her heart might have no pressure upon it, that the 
air of heaven could blow freely upon her; but what 
did he see ? Not the fair ivory skin that covered 
the faultless symmetry of her form, but a rough 
hair-shirt under which the tender flesh showed many 
a stripe and scar. A cry escaped his lips of such 
bitter anguish that it recalled her from the bright 
mysteries which were already dawning upon her; 
there was a tremulous movement of her white, dying 
lips, and, bending down his ear, he heard her whis¬ 
per: “ It was for thee! O Christ, make him Thine 
own! 

That was all. Her pure soul passed with the 
prayer. Then he knew how she had done penance 
for him, knew that for his sins and follies this rough 
garment was worn, and that by the suffering of her 
tender flesh she had hoped to win mercy for him. 
Many drew near and offered assistance, but he 
motioned them away, and, gathering the dead form 
to his bosom, he bore her back to their desolated 
home, where, with speechless agony and a dumb 
wonder, he watched, shedding no tear, uttering no 
moan, until those who were to perform the last sad 
offices for the dead came to lead him away. Then 
he touched the hair-shirt with his finger, “ Leave 
that as it is,” he said. 


V. 

What was left for Jacques dei Benedetti, now ? 
Sympathy, condolence, and religious help were 


ANNA NANS ON DORSEY. 


89 


offered, but he would none of it. The dreadful 
blow had wounded the natural man unto death; it 
was as a sword that had “ divided the bones and 
the marrow ’ ’; and there echoed through heart and 
brain one only word : Penance! Penance! Penance! 

It was not as yet the solemn whisper of a new 
life, but the memory that stood out above all else 
—the penance and prayers she had offered for his 
guilty soul. Nature was, however, slowly giving 
place to a new-born supernatural principle, as in 
solitude, almost in darkness, the days went on. He 
refused admittance to all, except when obliged to 
answer questions about the funeral arrangements; 
and when a friend would have led him to look his 
last on the saintly beauty of his dead, he uttered a 
stern “ No!” and, closing his door, flung himself 
prostrate while his soul leaped up in a strong cry 
to God. It was his first prayer, and a strange peace 
fell upon him, with a sentiment of humility so pro¬ 
found as to overwhelm him like a torrent. 

Then came the magnificent funeral, and again he 
walked a pale, tearless mourner; but his hair had 
grown white, and his stately form so bowed that 
people questioned whether it could really be the 
proud, handsome jurisconsult. And when the world, 
weary of a week’s mourning and seclusion, and 
even the priests—worn out with their long vigils, 
fasting, and the ceremonies which had occupied 
them so many days—hastened from the Cathedral, 
Jacques dei Benedetti remained in the crypt with 
the dead; and with his head bowed upon the coffin- 


9° 


THE MAD PENITENT OF TOD/. 


lid of her whom he had so loved, he made another 
and holier vow than the one of years before. After 
this, no more grieving: here they would separate 
until the judgment-day; she was Heaven’s own; 
and he then made a renunciation of tender, fruitless 
memories; of his sorrow, which he offered with the 
sufferings of the Crucified; of all the beautiful idyls 
of the past; of every earthly hope and desire; and 
thus stripped of self, he offered himself humbly to 
Almighty God, to be moulded and fashioned as He 
willed. 

His next step was to resign his civic dignities, 
and to the almost dumb amazement of the com¬ 
munity, he sold his goods and distributed his pos¬ 
sessions to the poor; and then, dressed in rags, like 
one distraught, he haunted the churches, absorbed 
in devotion, looking neither to the right nor left, 
his head bowed upon his breast, and floods of tears 
streaming from his eyes. He walked the streets 
bareheaded, his garments old and coarse and ragged, 
and his bare feet often bleeding from the sharp un¬ 
even stones. 

At first people were awed, and wondered at such 
abnegation. Some thought he would get over it 
and come out in renewed splendor. But when they 
found he did not mend his ways they nicknamed 
him “ Jacopone ”—mad Jacques. The boys 
shouted after him in the streets, pelted him with 
stones, and the people saluted him with derisive 
shouts; but he went his way in silence, unheeding 
their insults. One day, like the prophet Jeremias, 


ANNA NANS ON DORSEY. 


91 


who appeared in the public places of Jerusalem 
with a yoke about his neck, a symbol of her 
approaching captivity, the poor penitent showed 
himself on the public promenade half naked, with 
a saddle and bridle on his back, walking on his 
hands and knees like a beast of burden. Some 
wept; there were a few who shouted in derision; 
and many were touched and saddened as they 
beheld the miserable state to which his envied 
destiny had fallen. “ He is mad! ” they said. 
“ He is not mad,” observed a holy man who knew; 
“ he is doing penance.” 

But people could not discern the supernatural 
under such a guise; they only stared and laughed 
at the strange spectacle, and said: “ Poor Jaco- 
pone! His vagaries are harmless; but Todi misses 
him sorely; the place has grown as dull as a grave¬ 
yard.” 

His palace he could not alienate; but he granted 
the free use of it to a branch of the Order of Mercy, 
founded by a saintly knight of Languedoc, Peter 
Nolasco; and this was considered by many as fresh 
evidence of his insanity. “ When he recovers, 
there will not be a shelter for his head.” 

But none knew of Jacopone’s hidden life,—how 
he went in secret to the sick and destitute poor in 
the hovels about the town, ministering to their 
necessities and performing the meanest offices for 
them, until some even believed that the dear Lord 
had sent St. Francis to their aid; none knew of 
his vigils in the churches, where, hidden behind a 


92 


THE MAD PENITENT OF TODI. 


pillar or tomb, his forehead pressed against the 
stone floor, he meditated on the Passion of Jesus 
and the Dolors of Mary until the marble flags were 
wet with his tears. 

News of his madness finally spread abroad, and 
strangers, many of whom had witnessed his former 
splendor, came to look upon him and wonder. His 
case was reported to and discussed at Rome, but 
when those were sent having authority—three men 
of holy lives—to note his eccentricities and question 
him, his answers, briefly and humbly made, con¬ 
vinced them that he was moved to perform his 
heroic acts of penance by a purely supernatural 
motive. 

A period of ten years passed by, and one morn¬ 
ing the porter of the Franciscan Monastery told the 
prior that Jacopone was at the gate and asked to 
be admitted to the abbot’s presence. The prior 
frowned. He was a man of holy, ascetic life, but 
looked upon all novelties as a delusion and a snare 
of the devil. 

“ Didst thou tell him, brother, that the abbot is 
rarely interrupted at this hour ? ” 

“ I did, Reverend Father; but he said he would 
wait, and went and sat upon the roadside with the 
beggars.” 

“ Very well. I will let him know the abbot’s 
pleasure.” 

“ Our abbot does strange things, sometimes,” 
the prior thought: “ he may choose to see this 
mad beggar, for whom we pray as one of our bene- 


ANN-A NANS ON DORSEY. 


93 


factors. May our blessed Lady deliver us from 
evil. The enemy of souls has been known to coun¬ 
terfeit a penitent; didn’t he so appear once to Fra 
Juan Garin, at Montserrat, and come near dragging 
his soul to hell! ” 

By this time he had reached the abbot’s door, 
where he rapped, and was bid to enter. 

“ A mad beggar is at the gate, Reverend Father, 
craving admission to thy presence; I will dismiss 
him if thou sayest so.” 

“ Name him,” said the abbot briefly. 

“ Jacopone.” 

“ Jacopone! Bring him hither, my good prior. 
Jacopone must never be kept waiting; it were a 
shame for us, whose house and church he so beauti¬ 
fied in time past; and let me tell thee what I fear: 
when Christ comes some of us will be cast out of 
the Kingdom, while the 1 mad penitent * will be 
received and crowned among the saints.” 

The prior bowed; there was a spot of color on 
his pale cheeks, but he made no reply, and with¬ 
drew to do the bidding of his superior. 

The abbot arose from his chair, and stood wait¬ 
ing, while strange emotions agitated his heart. 
He had known Jacopone in the days of his pride 
and prosperity; and he had met him saddled on the 
public promenade, followed by the hooting crowd; 
but never since his penitential days had he come 
to the monastery. What could be his object ? 

The door opened, and Jacopone—his broad fore¬ 
head pale, his temples and cheeks sunken, his beard 


94 


THE MAD PENITENT OF TODI. 


almost white—entered and knelt while the abbot 
blessed and welcomed him in a voice that trembled 
with emotion. 

“ Rise, my son, and be seated,” he said. 

“ If thou wilt, I will remain so; it is more fitting, 
as I have come to beg a great boon at thy hands, 
Lord Abbot.” 

“ Do as it best pleases thee, my son; but what 
wouldst thou of me, in God’s holy name ? ” 

11 Having fulfilled a vow, I now wish to enter the 
Order of St. Francis,” he said humbly, never raising 
his eyes. 

“ My son, dost thou understand that all who 
enter here have to learn the holy science of obedi¬ 
ence? ” His voice was steady now, and almost stern. 

“ That I know right well, Lord Abbot; it is a 
science I most desire to be taught.” 

“ And dost thou know that our rule permits no 
singularities in devotion—no novelties in dress or 
manner ? ” 

“ Aye, that also I know. I seek to enter the 
Order of the blessed St. Francis as a servant,— 
that I may work out my salvation. Pity me, my 
Lord Abbot, for my unworthiness is even greater 
than thou canst conceive; but by the grace of our 
dear Lord, whose mercy is infinite, I hope to be 
moulded like wax by the blessed rule of St. Francis, 
until—until—at last—I may be found worthy of 
reconciliation with.Him.” He faltered, while great 
tears rolled over his wan cheeks, and glistened like 
jewels on his gray, tangled beard. The good 


ANNA HANSON DORSEY . 


95 


abbot’s impulse was to kneel beside the poor sup¬ 
pliant, fold his arms about him and welcome him 
with a thousand welcomes to the Order. But he 
only said: 

11 Be comforted, my son; for, whether in the 
Order of St. Francis or out of it, such penitence as 
thine will in the end win heaven for thee. I will 
lay thy application before the brethren. Come 
hither next Monday and I will make known the 
decision to thee. Now, go in peace, pray for me, 
and may the Most Adorable Trinity bless and 
strengthen thee.” 

***** 

The answer was a favorable one, and thus “the 
old athlete of penance,” as he is called, entered 
the great Order, and his after-life became a strange 
chapter in its history. 

He lived long years, abating nothing of his 
austerities, rather adding to them; and shortly 
before his death, from his prison at Collazone, he 
gave to the world his matchless hymn the 11 Stabat 
Mater" which will keep alive the memory of his 
burning love and his mighty repentance until the 
sublime chants of the Church Militant blend forever 
with those of the Church Triumphant. 




ELLA LORAINE DORSEY* 


Ella Loraine Dorsey is the youngest child of Mrs. 
Anna Hanson Dorsey and her husband, the late Lorenzo 
Dorsey. Esq. She began her literary career when she 
was about 16, as special correspondent on the Chronicle 
and Critic, two Washington papers. Later she wrote 
specials—regularly for the Chicago Tribune, and now and then 
for the Boston Journal, Cincinnati Commercial Gazette, etc. 

In April, 1886, Harper’s Magazine published “Back 
from the Frozen Pole,” and the Catholic World published 
1 ‘ The Czar’s Horses, ’ ’ which last was attributed to Archibald 
Forbes, and went around the English colonies as far as 
New Zealand. The same year Father Hudson pub¬ 
lished “Midshipman Bob,” which was so kindly received 



















that it was reprinted and had a large sale in England and 
Ireland, and was translated into Italian. From that time 
she devoted herself to our Catholic boys through the Ave 
Maria, trying to do for them what her mother does so 
nobly for the grown-ups; and between ’86 and '90 Father 
Hudson published: “Jet, the War Mule,” “The Two 
Tramps,” “ Coppinger's Inheritance” “ The Jose Maria,” 
“Saxty’s Angel,” “ Speculum Justitiae,” * 1 The Wharf Rat's 
Christmas,” “The Brahmin's Christmas,” “The Salem 
Witch,” and “Tiny Tim.” Before that, however, several 
of her sketches had been published: “ The Solitary Soul,” 
“The Son of the Widow of Naim,” “The Fool of the 
Wood,” “ Bodger,” “ Ole Miss,” etc. 

In 1890 a violent and prolonged attack of grippe put a 
stop to her work, and since that time she has written scarcely 
anything, except two poems in the Cosmopolitan, a story 
in Outing, “Ivan of the Mask,” some “specials” in 
the Washington Post and Ave Maria, and "Smallwood’s 
Immortals,” a historical sketch of the young paladins of 
the Maryland Line, who died at Long Island in 1776, that 
the army-—the defeated, panic-stricken, routed, almost 
destroyed army—might live. . 

Her mother’s prolonged illness two years ago further 
checked Miss Dorsey’s work, and a new book on which she 
is now engaged will mark the recommencement of her 
regular work. 

Miss Dorsey is a Daughter of the American Revolution, 
a Colonial Dame, a member of the Literary Society of 
Washington, the Geographical Society, and the Georgetown 
Convent Alumnae Association. 


Speculum Justitta;, 


BY ELLA LORAINE DORSEY. 

I. 

It was a bitter night in winter. The streets had 
been deserted at an early hour, and the wind that 
raged up from the sea tore at the shutters and 
banged at the doors, shrieking, whistling, and 
roaring, till the townsfolk turned in their beds and 
muttered: “ God save the sailor lads this night! ” 
But some of the nervous old women covered their 
ears and said: “ The good-for-nothing vagabonds!” 
For they thought the banging and shouting came 
from some ship’s crew just landed, and hurrying to 
spend their money and vitality larking. 

Suddenly the wind veered to the northwest, and 
whirling down out of the low black clouds came one 
soft white flake, then another, and another, until 
the air was as white as the surf bursting and flying 
out on the harbor bar. 

And all the time, in a side street of this water- 
end of the city, a man lay face down, a knife in his 
back, and death on his lips and in his heart. And 
the snow gathered and covered the red stain that 
crept like a scarlet snake from the small wound, and 
99 


ioo SPECULUM JUSTITIJE. 

wrapt him in a winding-sheet whiter than any flax 
ever spun. 

And a ship drove safely into the harbor out of 
the storm, let go her anchor with a rattle and clank 
of chains, and a hearty “ Yo-heave-oh! ” that rang 
merrily through the night; and one of the sailors— 
refusing with a laugh to wait for daybreak—sprang 
into the dingy, pulled ashore through the angry 
water, and struck out briskly for home. Such a 
little box of a home, but neat as a new pin, and an 
old mother in it dearer than all the world to the 
sturdy fellow tramping through the snow. 

“ I told her I’d be there, and of course I will; 
for this here wind a-blowin’, and the delay from 
the backin’ and fillin’ we had to do outside there, 
so ’s to git a good headway on th’ old gal [the 
ship], ull have her that uneasy I know she won’t 
sleep a wink this blessed—hullo! what’s here ? Git 
along, old chap. ’Taint safe for a feller to be 
takin’ naps in this here temperatoor. Whew! if 
there’s one thing I hate it’s a feller a-makin’ a 
beast of himself a-drinkin’. Mebbe, though, I’d 
been there myself if it hadn’t been for Father Tom; 
so here goes to help ‘ the man and brother.’ My 
Lord A’mighty, what’s this here? It’s a knife, and 
the man’s dead as a nail! Mur-” 

But an iron arm had him round the neck, and an 
iron hand was clapped over his mouth, and he was 
dragged furiously here and there, while a stentorian 
voice rang out, “ Murder! murder! murder! ” 

In the mad struggle that followed, David Jame- 



ELLA 1.0 R A IN E DORSEY . 


IOI 


son’s clothing was torn from his back, and his face 
bruised; though he defended himself so manfully 
that his assailant was put to it for breath wherewith 
to keep up his shout of “ Murder.” 

The harbor-watch ran panting to the scene, and 
before Jameson—bewildered by the sudden attack, 
and exhausted by the violent tussle—could speak, 
the man who grappled him poured out a voluble 
story. He had been coming along the street after 
spending the evening at Moreno’s wine-shop,and had 
seen the two men struggling; this one had plunged 
a knife into the back of the other; he had fallen 
and died without a groan. Then this man stooped 
to—he supposed—rifle the dead man’s pockets, 
and he had seized him. 

“ You lie!” shouted Davie. “ The man must 
have been dead an hour when I saw him. He was 
covered with snow-” 

“ Shut up! ” said the harbor-watch. 

And Davie’s captor, with an expressive shrug 
and a flinging out of his hands, said: “ Behold the 
knife, signor.” 

The knife was a black clasp-knife, such as any 
sailor of any nation might carry; but the officers 
smiled contemptuously when Jameson declared it 
was not his, and told them his sheath was empty 
only because he had lost his knife that very night 
coming into port—that it had been knocked out of 
his hand while he was cutting away some raffle 
tangled up by the gale. And they carried him off 
with every indignity to the station-house, treating 



102 


SPECULUM JUSTITIAL. 


with marked consideration the foreigner—an Italian 
—who had captured the desperate murderer at such 
risk and after such a fight, and thanking him with 
some effusion for his offer to be at their service day 
or night so long as he stayed in port, noting down 
the place of anchorage of his vessel; for of course 
he was the only witness for the prosecution. 

Poor David! One hour before a free, light¬ 
hearted lad, springing home to his mother, his soul 
innocent of guile, and his heart at peace with the 
world. Now disgraced, ironed at ankles and wrists, 
his heart a pit of rage, and every muscle aching to 
get at the man who had lied away his honesty, his 
integrity, his liberty, and—it might easily come to 
that—his life. 

The jailer was a kind-hearted man, so when he 
came into the cell in the early morning he asked 
David if he had any friends he wished to see; and 
he, poor lad, with a ray of hope striking across his 
passion of rage and despair, cried: “ Let me see 
Father Fahey.” 

“ Father Tom, is it? ” asked the jailer. 

“ That’s the one,” said David, eagerly. 

“ Oh, I know him! ” said the man, with a broad 
smile; “ and it’s himself always has his joke and 
his good word for everybody. I tell him, some¬ 
times, he’s sent for so constant he’d better just live 
here. Him and me’d make a good pair, and trot 
well in double harness—me a-catchin’ the corpus 
delictisses ” (he had his little vanities of fine lan¬ 
guage, this jailer), “ and him a-nabbin’ the bad 


ELLA LORAINE DORSEY. 103 

consciences. ‘ Gillett,’ says he to me no later than 
last Tuesday, when I’d said as much to him,— 
* Gillett, we’ve got responsibilities both of us, and 
above all we’ve got to keep everything clean-washed 
and accounted for.’ ‘ Yes,’ I cuts in, ‘ me to the 
Guv’nor and you to the Lord.’ That’s just what I 
said—‘ me to the Guv’nor and you to the Lord,’ 
—and it was a pretty neat answer.” 

And he rubbed his chin softly, and repeated his 
own words several times with intense enjoyment of 
their neatness. 

“ When can I see him ? ” begged David. 

“ To-morrow, maybe.” 

“ To-morrow! ” and his face fell back to its lines 
of misery. “ Good Lord, man, my old mother’ll 
hear it before that, and it’ll kill her if it’s broke too 
sudden to her! Father Tom’s the only man that 
can do it.” 

“ Well, well,” said the jailer, “ I’ll telephone 
round for you; but”—with a sudden sense of 
responsibility —“ that was a shabby trick to play a 
messmate.” 

” I didn’t,” said David, simply, and he raised 
his honest eyes to the jailer’s face. ‘‘I never saw 
him till-” 

“ There, there! ” said the jailer, soothingly; 
“ don’t talk till your lawyer gits here.” And off 
he went down the corridor, thinking as he did so: 
“ He looks honest, but, great Scott! you never can 
tell. They’ll look like cheraphs and serabims ” 
(his biblical knowledge was slight and very mixed), 



104 


SPECULUM JUSTITIJE. 


“ and all the time they’ll be up to any dodge on 
the p’lice docket. This feller’s cut diff’rent from 
the heft of my birds, though.” 

An hour later Father Tom stood in the cell, and 
he took David in his arms, and welcomed him as if 
he had come home laden with honors instead of 
crushed under the charge of crime. Then he said, 
gently: “ Now, Davie, tell me all about it.” 

And David told the whole story, beginning with 
the start from the ship, and going circumstantially 
through the after-events, from the brief but terrific 
struggle over the dead man’s body to the prison. 
Father Tom listened intently, and David, as he 
warmed up to his story, concluded with “ I am as in¬ 
nocent of that man’s blood as you are, Father Tom; 
but if I had that Italian here I’d strangle him.” 

Father Tom’s only answer was to pull out the 
crucifix from his girdle, hold it up, and point to the 
agonized figure on it. 

David hung his head, and with the cry, “ But 
think of mother! ” the tears burst from his dry and 
burning eyes. 

Presently Father Tom said: “ Now, Davie, let 
us kneel down and say a Memorare and the Veni 
Sancte Spiritus , and then we’ll see what’s to be 
done first.” 

But poor David’s cry, as soon as the Amen was 
said, was again: “ O Father Tom! my poor old 
mother! ” 

“ Now look here, boy,” said the priest, with 
some severity, “ do you suppose such a good 


ELLA LORAINE DORSEY. 105 

Catholic and such a devoted servant of Our Lady 
as your mother is, is going to waste time mourning 
and weeping ? If you had been guilty, then she 
might have broken her heart; but she’ll have so 
many prayers to say for you, and so many things 
to do for you—and she can come every day to see 
you, too,—that the time will go by almost before 
you know it. I’ll go to her now and tell her about 
it. And would you like me to send your skipper 
or any of your shipmates to see you ? ” 

“ Not yet,” said Davie; “ tell ’em, though. 
And, Father, tell ’em, too, I didn’t do it.” 

“ Ay, ay, lad, you may depend on that. Now, 
is there anything you want? Have you got tobacco, 
and warm flannels, and some money ? Have you 
got your—oh, yes, there are your beads! ” 

“ Yes, sir,” said David, ** I’ve got them safe; 
but it’s a wonder I didn’t lose ’em in that scrim¬ 
mage last night. I s’pose I would a’ done it ef I 
hadn’t strung ’em round my neck before I went 
aloft out yonder. The wind certainly was trem- 
menjis off the Point, and when we was piped up to 
cut loose a broken yard and snug down, I didn’t 
count much on seeing home-lights again. So ’s I 
run along the deck and began scramblin’ up the 
shrouds, I slipped ’em over my head. I heerd a 
Breton sailor say once that the Blessed Lady ’d lift 
us safe and sound out of even a ragin’ sea into 
heaven by ’em. Of course I knew he didn’t mean 
the real body of us, nor the real string of beads, 
nor the real seas; but it seemed to me the idee was 


106 SPECULUM JUSTITIPE. 

about so—that she’d lift the souls of us out of the 
pit o’ death and tow us into port by that there 
hawser of prayers we’d been a-makin’ and a-makin’ 
ever sence we could toddle.” 

“ And it is so,” said Father Tom, heartily, lay¬ 
ing his hand on David’s shoulder; while the latter 
knelt as he used to do when a little lad in Father 
Tom’s catechism class, and received his blessing. 

“ Keep up your heart, keep down your temper, 
and trust in God,” were the priest’s parting words. 
“ I’ll send you some papers, and I’ll come back 
to-morrow.” 

Then he went and had a little talk with the jailer, 
and asked such privileges as could be allowed the 
prisoner; and left the jail with a heavy heart, to 
break the news to David’s mother, to get good 
counsel for him, to see the judge of the criminal 
court, whom he had so often to interview on behalf 
of prisoners, and to see the captain of the ship to 
which the young sailor belonged. And the farther 
he went, the more depressed he got—the hour, the 
circumstances, the straight story told by the Italian, 
all tended to push David nearer and nearer the 
gallows. 

There was a certain sort of good luck, though; 
for the court was in session, and a sudden lapse in 
the testimony in a long-drawn bank robbery case 
left a free day, which the counsel seized upon, ask¬ 
ing the judge, in view of the peculiar circumstances, 
to call the trial; for the only actual witness, one 
Manuel Ignatius Pizarro, would have to sail with 


ELLA LORA INE DORSEY. 107 

his brig—the Maria di Napoli —on the following 
Wednesday for Marseilles. 

There was some demur about precedent and so 
on, but the point was carried, and the 20 th of 
December saw the court-room filled to hear the 
trial of David Jameson, seaman, for the murder of 
an unknown man on the night of the 13 th day of 
that same month, in the year of Our Lord 188 -. 
The court was opened with the usual formalities, 
and the case presented by the counsel for the Gov¬ 
ernment. Then, after a brief citation of the facts 
—“the terrible facts,” they were called,—the 
Italian, “ whose tongue alone could tell the truth,” 
was put upon the stand. 

He was a tall, well-formed man, but there was a 
furtive trick about his eyes; and the eyes them¬ 
selves, though large and brilliant, were so near to¬ 
gether that they seemed to cross at times; the eye¬ 
brows were heavy and met at the root of the nose, 
which gave a sinister look to his face; and his 
nostrils were thin as paper, and vibrated with every 
breath. For the rest, he was handsome enough; 
and his picturesque though very theatrical costume 
was becoming, from the scarlet Phrygian cap, and 
the wide gold rings in his ears, to the curiously 
embroidered top-boots, and the long Spanish cloak 
in which he draped himself (as he entered and de¬ 
parted) in folds that would have done credit to an 
ancient Roman. 

He told his story dramatically and with abundant 
gesture, and wound up by saying, “ Doubtless, 


Io8 SPECULUM JUS TIT I PE. 

excellency, it was some secret foe; for he stabbed 
him with such force, such savagery; and a blow in 

the back—O treachery! O cruelty-” 

“ Stick to facts, sir,” said the judge, impassively. 
The Italian shrugged his shoulders and bowed, 
but his eyes seemed to leap toward each other, and 
their flash belied the wide smile that displayed his 
teeth, white and strong as a shark’s. 

Then the cross-examination began. 

“ At what time did you go to Moreno’s ? ” 

“ At twenty-two hours (io o’clock p.m.).” 

“ Where were you before that ? ” 

** Aboard the Maria di Napoli. ’ ’ 

11 At what hour did you leave the ship? ” 

“ At twenty-one hours and a half ( 9.30 p.m.).” 

“ Were you alone ? ” 

“ When?” 

“ When you left the ship.” 

” No. My mate was with me.” 

“ What is his name ? ” 

“ Pedro Maria Allegrini.” 

” Was he with you in the wine-shop ? 

“ All the time.” 

” Did you leave together ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ Why?” 

“ Pedro’s head was heavier than his legs.” 

“ Where is Pedro Allegrini ? ” 

Here,” and he waved his arm toward a heavy, 
stolid man among the audience. 

His name was noted. 



ELLA LORAINE DORSEV. 109 

“ When you saw the two men—the prisoner and 
the deceased,—what were they doing ? ” 

“ Struggling: this one actively, the other like a 
man heavy with wine.” 

And so on, and so on, with a circumstantiality 
of detail and a distinctness of outline that were 
appalling to Father Tom and David’s other 
friends. 

And when Moreno and Allegrini were called they 
confirmed all that Pizarro had said up to the hour 
of his leaving the house, at two o’clock. 

The witnesses for the defence could do only nega¬ 
tive service by testifying to David’s previous good 
character, and this they did heartily; but the jury, 
after a half-hour’s deliberation, returned a verdict 
of murder, commending the prisoner, however, to 
the mercy of the court. 

When the foreman had spoken, a shrill, heart¬ 
broken cry rang through the room: “ My son! my 
son! Spare him, your honor! spare him! He’s 
as innocent as a baby! ” 

It was the old mother, who tore at her gray hair 
and beat her breast, while the slow tears of old age 
rolled down her cheeks. 

“ Poor soul! ” said the judge, kindly; “ I can 
only let the law take its course.” 

Then she raised her tottering frame, and, with 
hands and arms uplifted, she cried: “ Mirror of 
Justice, defend us! ” 

It was a touching little scene, and many people 
in the court-room wiped their eyes; and the pris- 


IIO 


SPECULUM JUSTITIM. 


oner’s drooping head, clenched fists, and laboring 
breath, bore witness to the anguish he endured. 

Father Tom came to him, and spoke a few cheer¬ 
ing words, then took the mother from the court¬ 
room; and the captain and some of David’s ship¬ 
mates followed him to the jail to see him; but, 
finding they could not enter, stood about and talked 
in low voices of him as one already dead. During 
the week they came back one by one, the captain 
to shake hands and wish him kindly but vaguely 
“ well out of it ” ; the sailor-men to shuffle their 
feet, shift their quids, and sit about awkwardly and 
silently, the very force of their sympathy making 
them as undemonstrative as wooden figure-heads. 

Then they sailed away, and the Maria di Napoli 
spread her canvas wings for the Mediterranean; and 
the world forgot David—all except Father Tom, 
and his mother, and his lawyer; the latter of whom 
had become so deeply interested in his fate that, by 
incredible work and judicious appeal and present¬ 
ment of the case in the right quarters (to say noth¬ 
ing of catching at every technical straw that could 
aid him), he secured a final sentence of “ imprison¬ 
ment for life at hard labor.” 

But this all took months, and it was not until the 
jail had blanched his face, and the confinement 
almost burst his heart, that David was taken to the 
penitentiary, and there, among forgers, murderers, 
and criminals of all degrees and grades, put to 
work out a life of misery. 


ELLA LORA INE DORSEY, 


III 


II. 

Again it was a night in winter, and again the 
wind blew and the snow flew—stinging like a swarm 
of white bees,—just as it had blown and flown that 
other night three years ago, when, in that Northern 
seaport town, a man had been stabbed in the 
street, and a young sailor was sent to the peniten¬ 
tiary for it;—sent to the penitentiary for life on cir¬ 
cumstantial evidence and the testimony of—of the 
man who is now, on this bitter winter evening, 
creeping along against the houses of that same 
town, glancing first over one shoulder, then over 
the other, with terror in his eyes, and a shivering 
and racking of his body that made progress slow. 
Once or twice he stopped, panting for breath; but 
started up and hurried on again, looking back fear¬ 
fully as if pursued. 

Up the street a great block of carriages stopped 
the way. It was before the house of an old Ger¬ 
man merchant, who, forty years before, built his 
house in the then most fashionable quarter of the 
city; but business marched up and on, pushing the 
gay world farther and farther northward and west¬ 
ward, until now it was the only dwelling in the 
square. But the old merchant lived there con¬ 
tentedly, and on this night his youngest daughter, 
his golden-haired Elsa, came of age, and the birth¬ 
day was celebrated by a great fancy ball. 

This the Italian, of course, could not know; for 


112 SPECULUM JUSTITIjE. 

he was a stranger, and was, moreover, half crazed 
with drink; but what he did know was that at that 
point there were people, there was life , there was 
the sound of human voices, and above all there was 
light, beautiful light,—light that kept at bay the 
terrors that rent his soul when night and sleep fell 
on the world. 

How he hated the dark! It swarmed with such 
ugly things; and a face—an awful face, with staring 
eyes and rigid lips—would start into such ghastly 
distinctness as soon as the sun was down. And it 
followed him like a shadow, hounding him from 
place to place, filling him with an unnatural vigor, 
and an activity that tired out the stoutest of his 
boon companions; and when they slept, exhausted, 
it still drove him on, tortured, agonized, panic- 
stricken, till the day broke, and the sight of the 
crowds helped him to sleep and reason. 

As he reached the awning, and pressed close to 
the steps, a carriage dashed up to the curb; the 
door of the house was flung open for some parting 
guests, and for a few minutes a dazzling vision was 
revealed — fairies, shepherdesses, arquebusiers, 
pages, halberdiers, kings, court ladies, and queens, 
in gorgeous colors and flashing jewels. But the 
Italian saw none of these; his staring eyes fastened 
on a stately figure that seemed to float down toward 
him between the rows of orange and palm trees that 
lined the staircase. On it came, tall, in flowing 
raiment, a cloud of golden hair rippling over its 
shoulders from under a crown of light; in one raised 


ELLA L 0 RA 1 NE DORSEY. 113 

hand a pair of scales, in the other a gleaming sword, 
whose point seemed to mark him from the throng. 

“ Speculum Justitice! ” he shrieked; “ yes, I did 
it—I did it! I murdered him! Take me-” 

And he fell grovelling at the feet of the police¬ 
men, who had forgotten their official stolidity to 
stare, open-mouthed, at the lovely Angela von 
Henkeldyne, who in her costume of “ Justice ” had 
wrought such innocent vengeance. 

On principle they seized the Italian for a rowdy; 
but his repeated cry, “ I did it—I murdered him! 
soon attracted their attention, and as he struggled 
in a fit, they called up the patrol wagon, and took 
him to headquarters. There the police surgeon 
took him in hand, until finally, at daybreak, he 
recovered consciousness. On being told that he 
could not live through the next night, he asked 
for a priest, and who but Father Tom was brought 
to shrive the poor wretch, and listen to the story 
he had to tell! 

He had played, he said, in the wine-shop that 
night until midnight with a stranger, who lost 
heavily to him, and drank deeply as he played. 
But his losses did not seem to depress him, and 
tfce wines did not confuse him, and Manuel said: 

“You are a gallant man, signor. You lose with 
grace and courage.” 

And he had answered, with a laugh: “ I can 
afford to. I have fifty thousand dollars here.” 
And he touched his breast. 

Manuel raised his eyebrows. 



114 


SPECULUM JUSTITIPE. 


“ Don’t you believe me? ” asked his companion, 
with some heat. 

Manuel bowed derisively. 

“ Hang it! ” said the man; “ I’m telling you 
the simple truth. Look here.” And he drew out 
and opened a small doeskin bag slung around his 
neck, showing a diamond, the like of which Manuel 
had never beheld. 

” It sent a madness to my head, Father, and I 
felt I must have it, if I had to wade to my eyes in 
blood to get it. But he tucked it away again, and 
rose. ‘ I must go,’ he said; ‘ I have already 
stayed too long.’ I pressed him to wait, but he 
got restless, and looked at me suspiciously. I asked 
where we might meet the next day, and drink our 
glass and play our little game of mora. But he 
answered he didn’t know—he was here to-day, and 
there to-morrow, and far away the day after. I laid 
my hand on his arm. ‘ Come, crack another 
bottle,’ I urged. But he shook me off roughly, 
and pushed out of the wine-shop, saying, 1 Enough’s 
as good as a feast.’ 

“ I knew the house. There was a cellar that 
gave on the street he must pass. I said: ‘ I must 
have a bottle of lachrynia, the vintage of ’ 73 .’ I 
went below—the landlord knows me,—and I opened 
the cellar door, and stole after him. In the dark 
I tracked him, and struck as I sprang on him. 
I wrenched the bag from his neck, and nearly 
shrieked as something soft and cold, like a dead 
finger, touched my cheek. It was a snow-flake, and 


ELLA LORAINE DORSEY . 


XI 5 


I ran in hot haste back to the shop, so no tracks 
Could be left. I had struck well—the blood had 
not spattered, there was no struggle. It was the 
stroke of the Vendetta. The whole affair did not 
take twenty minutes, and I came back into the 
room, and drank and played. But the diamond in 
my breast burned like a coal, and I thought its rays 
of splendid fire must be seen; and in at the windows 
the dead man’s face seemed to look—but that was 
only the snow flying past; and I felt drawn back to 
the spot, as if he had his hand at the sleeve of my 
jacket. But this I fought against, until suddenly I 
remembered with terror I had left my knife sticking 
in the wound, and I knew I must have it at any 
risk. As I crept along I saw a sailor coming up the 
street. He stopped; he touched the body. Here 
was my chance. I sprang on him, dragging him 
here and there—and he fought well, that boy—like 
a wild-cat; and I shouted, ‘ Murder! murder! ’ 

“ It all turned out as I hoped. The watch— 
poor fools!—never thought to see whether the man 
was stiff; and when the coroner arrived, he was too 
stiff for question. Then came the trial, and there 
the first stone struck me.” 

His face was distorted with emotion. 

“ That boy I pitied—yes! But it was he or I, 
and I preferred to go free. The lies I swore to did 
not trouble me at all, for lies and I were bosom- 
friends; but when that old woman raised her hands 
and cried out, ‘ Mirror of Justice, defend us!’ I 
felt a fear; for my medal hung at my neck, and the 


ii 6 


SPECULUM JUS TITTLE. 


only prayer I had said for years was, sometimes, an 
‘ Ave.' Habit, I suppose, but it was so—I said it. 
And like the thunder on the mountain came the 
meaning of that prayer— Speculum Justitice And 
from that day I was a haunted man. Waking, that 
face followed me—the face I had struck into stone 
by a knife blow; and if I slept I saw always the 
same thing—myself trembling before a great bal¬ 
ance, and a sword hanging over my head; but two 
hands—a Woman’s hands—held down the scale- 
pan, and held back the sword; and through a mist 
a face sweet and sorrowful looked down at me, like 
the Dolorosa in the home chapel where I made my 
First Communion. And my terror lest the hands 
should slip or move would wake me with a start, 
and there would be the dead man and—and my 
memory waiting for me.” 

His voice sank to a whisper, and his eyes stared 
gloomily into space. 

“ What a life it has been! ” he went on, wearily. 
“ I dreaded to be robbed, and yet I dared not sell 
for fear of detection; I could not drink for fear I 
might betray myself, and for months the diamond 
hung like lead on my breast. Then I went to 
South America, and from there to Paris, where I 
sold it well, with a good story of how I found it at 
the mines, and smuggled it away. 

“ But bad luck followed me. The money went 
at play—I lost, lost, lost, at everything; rouge-et- 
noir, vingt-et-un , roulette , mora —all were alike 
against me. Everything I touched failed. My 


ELLA LORAINE DORSEY. 117 

crew got the fever. My Maria was lost off the 
Bahamas. My savings went in a bank failure. 
And forever and forever Our Lady appeared when 
I slept, and the dead man when I waked. 

“ Then I began to drink hard, and I kept jolly 
fellows about me—loud fellows, boisterous fellows, 
—and I would hear no word of prayer or hereafter; 
for the devil ruled my soul, and I knew I was out¬ 
cast from heaven. But—will you believe it ?—I 
still wore my medal, and might have tried to say 
an ‘ Ave y ' but I woke too often shrieking, ‘ Specu¬ 
lum Justitice! ’ and out of my own mouth I was 
condemned; for what would justice mean for me ? 

“ To-night the end has come; for I saw with 
these ” (he touched his eyes), “ not sleeping, not 
dreaming—awake—the Mirror of Justice. But She 
no longer stayed the sword, She no longer touched 

the scales. She held both in Her own hands-” 

He stopped, shuddering violently. 

“ My son,” said Father Tom, “ what you saw 
to-night was not Our Lady, although she might well 
have come from heaven to cry justice on your two¬ 
fold crime.” He told him what had really taken 
place, closing with, “ Now be a man and a true son 
of the Church. Come back to the manhood and 
the faith you have betrayed. That you repent 
truly of these sins I firmly believe, but prove it by 
confessing before the proper officers of the law; set 
free the innocent man who drags out his days under 
an unjust sentence in the penitentiary; and rest 
assured when you are weighed in the great scales of 



118 SPECUL UM J US TITIjE. 

eternal justice, Our Lord’s cross will outweigh your 
sins, and Our Lady’s prayers will stay the sword.” 

Manuel nodded his head, and with a great effort 
raised his eyes to Father Tom’s. They were still 
far too near together for honest dealing as the 
spirit understands it, but there was a new light in 
them. 

“ Father, I will, but—but—what will they think 
up aloft there, the good Jesn and Sanctissima ? I 
fear I could not do this if I did not know I was 
going to die. I would not have the courage. I, 
who call myself a gallant man—I am a coward! ’ ’ 
And two tears rolled down his cheeks. 

Father Tom felt a knot in his own throat at this 
confession, courageous in its weakness, pathetic in 
its falterings; and, although the words of St. 
Augustine * seemed to stand out before him in 
letters of fire, he thought of that hill on which once 
hung three crosses, and he heard a thief cry, 
“ Lord, be merciful to me a sinner! ” and the Voice 
that answered through the gathering darkness across 
the shuddering earth, “ This day shalt thou be with 
Me in paradise.” And while he sent for the near¬ 
est magistrate, he said such words of hope as the 
Church alone can breathe to the penitent, teaching 
as he did it the meaning of true repentance, and 
filling the sinner’s heart with humble hope. 

After all was over, Manuel begged to see David. 

* Beware of delayed repentance. A sick-bed repentance is 
too often a sickly repentance; and a death-bed repentance, 
alas! is in danger of being a dead repentance. 


ELLA LORAINE DORSEY . 119 

“ I dread it, but I cannot go until he forgives 
me,” he said. 

And somehow, in spite of technicalities, Father 
Tom managed it so the two men met on the third 
day; for Manuel spoke the truth when he said he 
could not go without forgiveness, and he lived 
on until then, to the amazement of the prison 
physician. 

At first David refused outright to see him, for his 
heart was bitter with the load of anguish borne 
through those three frightful years. But Father 
Tom “ talked to him,” and his mother gave the 
final stroke that determined him. 

“ Ye must go, Davie,” she said, as she hung on 
his neck. “Ye must go, boy; for the Mirror of 
Justice is the Mother of Mercy too.” 

And, oh! the thoughts of the two men as they 

faced each other! 

***** 

Where is Davie now ? Well, his story got about, 
and there was quite a furore of sympathy. Some 
good soul started a purse, and big hearts and good 
incomes ran the money up to enough to buy him a 
half share in a schooner, of which he ultimately 
became owner and captain. His old skipper wanted 
him back, but he did not need to be any man’s 
man now, except his own—and Our Lady’s. 

The old mother lived to dandle his children on 
her knee, and to take them on sunny Sundays, 
sometimes to Father Tom’s, and sometimes to a 
quiet graveyard by the shore of the bay, where 


120 


SPECULUM JUSTITI^E. 


they would kneel by a small slab of gray granite, 
and pray for him who slept below. And then, as 
they rested before starting home, small hands pulled 
the weeds from the grave, and picked the lichens 
from the letters of the inscription, sometimes spell¬ 
ing them out as they did so. And the spelling 
read: “ Pray for the soul of Manuel Ignatius 
Pizarro. Mirror of Justice, defend him! ** 



MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN* 


Maurice Francis Egan was born at Philadelphia, May 
24th, 1852. He was sent to one of the first parochial 
schools established in his native city, but his education was 
chiefly conducted by his mother, a woman of excellent liter¬ 
ary taste. He attended La Salle College for a time, but 
being obliged to leave on account of his health, he continued 
his studies at home, and was enabled to receive his degree of 
Master without the customary attendance. He finally took a 
course in philosophy at Georgetown College. 

For a while he studied law, but eventually drifted into 
journalism, and was successively editor of McGee’s Weekly, 
assistant editor of The Catholic Review, and associate editor 
of the New York Freeman’s Journal. In 1888 he was 




appointed professor of English Literature at Notre Dame 
University, which chair he resigned seven years later to 
occupy a similar position in the Catholic University of 
America. 

Mr. Egan is a member of the Authors’ Club, the New 
York Shakespere Society, and half-a-dozen philological 
societies in this country, England, and Germany. He has 
travelled extensively and written many books, some of 
which, including his most successful anonymous novels, he 
prefers to forget. His sonnets in the Century have been 
widely copied, and have elicited praise from Longfellow, 
Cardinal Newman. Stedman, and Gilder. His poetry and 
prose differ greatly;—and this, according to Mr. Edmund 
Clarence Stedman, is a great advantage. “ His verse is 
that of a poet; his prose direct, simple, true.” And, as in 
the example we quote : “ How Perseus became a Star,” 
he is sometimes almost painfully realistic. We give the 
list of his works taken from the book of the Authors’ Club 
(1896): “ That Girl of Mine,” “Preludes” (Poems for 
the benefit of Notre Dame University), “A Garden of 
Roses,” “ Stories of Duty,” “ Songs and Sonnets ” (1885 
and 1894), “The Life Around Us,” "The Theatre and 
Christian Parents,” "Modern Novelists,” “Lectures on 
English Literature,” “The Disappearance of John Long¬ 
worthy,” “A Primer of English Literature,” “A Gentleman” 
(essays for boys), “A Marriage of Reason,” “The Success 
of Patrick Desmond,” “The Flower of the Flock and the 
Badgers of Belmont,” “Jack Chumleigh,” “The Vocation of 
Edward Conway,” “ Influences in Literature ” 


Ibow fl>erseus Became a Star, 


A SKETCH FROM LIFE . 

BY MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN. 

I. 

CONE City is well known now because the Hon. 
Perseus G. Mahaffy was born there. The noise he 
made in the House of Representatives when it was 
found that Golung Creek, on which Cone City has 
the happiness to be placed, had been left out of the 
first River and Harbor Bill is historical; for, re¬ 
duced to printed symbols, it is in the Congressional 
Globe. He was known for the last ten years of his 
life as the P"ixed Star of Golung Creek, and he was 
supposed to equal in learning the Sage of Hastings 
and in eloquence the Tall Sycamore of the Wabash. 

The Cone City Eagle had sung his praises many 
times, but when he died it exhausted itself in a 
burst of adulation and appeared with a black border. 
The opposition paper, the Herald of Liberty , 
dropped its series of letters under the heading 
“ Why did He Change His Name ?” and a respect¬ 
ful tear; although it said editorially that death 
condones even the weakness which impels a man to 
change his name from Patrick to Perseus. Both 
123 


124 


HOW PERSEUS BECAME A STAR. 


papers had long accounts of the services which were 
conducted in the First Baptist Church; the lists of 
the floral tributes occupied a column, and among 
them was a star of lilies-of-the-valley from Col. 
Will Brodbeck, who assisted at the service, without, 
as he distinctly asserted, taking any part in a mum¬ 
mery which the world had outgrown. Still, CoL 
Will Brodbeck’s presence at the church was looked 
on as a compliment to religion and as showing a 
very liberal spirit. The Rev. Mr. Schuyler changed 
his text from a passage in Isaias to one in Robert 
Elsmere when he saw that the Colonel was a pall¬ 
bearer; and the congregation, consisting of the best 
people in Cone City, divided its attention between 
the widow’s appearance and the Colonel’s face, 
which wore a highly decorous and non-committal 
expression. When the preacher alluded to the 
Hon. Perseus G. Mahaffy as one who had cast off 
the bonds of early superstition, who had seen the 
light lit by Luther and the Fathers of the Reforma¬ 
tion, who had died firm in the Protestant belief, 
the Colonel looked scornful; and when the Colonel 
looked scornful, he was not pretty. 

He was six feet high, and of that pale, waxy 
complexion which gamblers, in works of fiction, are 
said to possess, with keen black eyes, a mass of 
grayish hair, and a broad chest. He took off his 
white gloves supplied by the undertaker, and, of 
course, too large even for him, and while Mr. 
Schuyler made his peroration, toyed with a large 
diamond on the little finger of his left hand. The 


MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN. 125 

mocking look in his eyes became more evident as 
the diamond flashed with his nervous movements, 
for he knew why and how the Hon. Perseus G. 
Mahaffy had died. 

The widow of the subject of Mr. Schuyler’s 
eulogies, a handsome woman with a haughty manner 
and eyes like Col. Brodbeck’s—she was his sister— 
sat with her three children near the coffin. She 
did not appear to be interested in the minister’s dis¬ 
course, and as it was known that she had had 
violent differences of opinion with the deceased, 
and that he had left a large life insurance, many of 
the assembly felt that she should have shown more 
signs of grief. Clara, her eldest daughter, a girl of 
sixteen, bent over the pew in front of her, a shape¬ 
less mass of black; the two boys seemed sad and 
bewildered rather than grief-stricken. 

When the long prayer was over and the choir, 
assisted by the Masonic Temple Quartette, had 
sung “ Almost Persuaded,” which was hastily 
chosen with reference to the supposed effect of the 
sermon on Col. Brodbeck, the funeral procession 
moved slowly from the church. Nothing unusual 
happened until Mrs. Mahaffy reached the door. 

An old woman in a bonnet and gown of rusty 
black bombazine rushed forward from a corner of 
the vestibule and caught Mrs. Mahaffy’s hand. 
“ Can you tell me—will you tell me, in the pres¬ 
ence of the dead, how he died ? ” she said in a hasty 
and trembling voice. 

The widow snatched away her hand and passed 


126 


HOW PERSEUS BECAME A STAR. 


on. Clara Mahaffy unconsciously raised her head 
at the words, and the old woman caught sight of 
the gentle face, so like that of her father in his best 
moods. 

“ Oh, dear! oh, acushla! ” the old woman said 
with a pathetic ring in her words, “ maybe you can 
tell me—maybe you were told-” 

But she was thrust aside by the undertaker, and 
the mourners passed into the street. The longing, 
despairing eyes of the old woman, so wretched in 
appearance, so wretched in heart, never left the 
girl’s mind until the answer to that strange question 
was found. 


II. 

The opposition paper of Cone City made a mis¬ 
take when it asserted that Perseus Mahaffy had 
dropped the name of Patrick. He often remarked 
that he would not have been fool enough to do 
that. If he had been named Patrick, it would have 
been money in his pocket, for the vote which is 
supposed to be attracted by that venerable name 
was strong in Cone City, and sometimes held the 
balance of power, but he had changed his name. 
His mother came from a part of Tipperary where 
Boethius is a cherished patronymic, and he had 
been called by that name. He had dropped it for 
Perseus Gifford, because Perseus Gifford took an 
interest in the clever young Irish lad, and helped 
him to study law, and because Perseus was an hon- 



MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN. 


127 


ored name in Cone City; it gave an air of “Ameri¬ 
canism ” to his surname, which, until the Irish vote 
became a factor in politics, he cursed with all his 
might. His father had died when he was eleven 
years of age. His mother, a rosy-cheeked, wrinkled 
old woman, who adored her son, had passed away 
about a year before Mr. Schuyler had delivered his 
funeral oration. He had got “ beyond her/’ as 
she said towards the last, when he and his wife and 
her grandchildren passed the end of her little garden 
every evening without coming in. She shed many 
bitter tears over this, but she never blamed him; 
in her heart she laid the guilt of this desertion on 
his wife. 

Ah! what an angel of light he would have been 
had it not been for this wife! she exclaimed to her¬ 
self often in the twilight when she sat alone. These 
idle hours in the dusk were the hardest for her to 
bear. She could see the lights in her son’s house 
from where she sat. There were sounds of music 
and of children singing—his children, her grand¬ 
children, yet so far from her. She could never bear 
the music of those childish voices. She always 
shut the windows when they began and tried to say 
her beads. He was a good son still; did he not 
send her every week from the bank enough money 
—more than enough—to keep her in comfort ? 
But oh! if she could only go back again to the old 
days when he was a little boy, and such an affec¬ 
tionate little fellow! How he used to cry when she 
sang an old song to him in the gloaming, after she 


128 HOW PERSEUS BECAME A STAR. 

had done her day’s work and they were waiting for 
the father. It was all about a little girl that lived 
in a red house by the sea, without sister or brother 
or father or mother. She often tried to recall it: 

“ I sit alone in the twilight, 

While the wind comes sighing to me, 

And I see that dear little orphan 
In the little red house by the sea.” 

Surely the loving little boy, whose eyes filled 
with tears every time she sang those simple words, 
could not have changed entirely. She had made 
his heart cold, the mother said of his wife; she had 
made him forget church and priest, and even his 
mother. 

It must be admitted that the old woman would 
not restrain herself when, soon after his marriage, 
her son had often come to see her. She had never 
spared his wife, and from this fact had sprung the 
coldness which prevented him from going to see 
her. It was none the less hard for the warm¬ 
hearted old woman. She took no pleasure in her 
son’s political successes; her only consolation, 
besides her religious duties, was in the company of 
one more unhappy, if possible, than herself. This 
was an old Irishwoman, Mrs. Carney, who lived in 
an unpainted and bare-looking frame house at the 
back of her garden. 

Frank Carney had been in the district school with 
Perseus—Mrs. Mahaffy never called him by that 
name, but always “ the Boy ”—and he had entered 


MAURICE ERA MCIS EG AM. 


129 


the same Lodge as that enterprising politician when 
the time came to cast off allegiance to the faith. 
Frank, a blue-eyed, light-haired, good-natured 
young man, was not quite so clever as Perseus, and 
not quite so unscrupulous. He had more con¬ 
science; but he had no firmness of will in face of a 
laugh. Moreover, he was fond of society; and, 
according to the constitution of Cone City, Cath¬ 
olics were not socially eligible. He was gay, cheer¬ 
ful, with a fatal facility for making himself agree¬ 
able. He was handsome; he could dance well, 
and he soon acquired those graces which Cone City 
had lately grasped with the “swallow tail” and 
other metropolitan novelties. Perseus took him 
into his law office, and from that time Mrs. Car¬ 
ney’s life became bitter. Her only son dropped 
his habit of going to Mass with her; he seldom 
came home; he promised when he did come that 
“ he’d make his soul by and by ”—and this with a 
laugh. But when she heard that he had been 
promoted—Cone City looked on this as a promotion 
—to the friendship of Col. Brodbeck, the notorious 
infidel, her heart sank; she refused to be comforted. 

Mrs. Mahaffy knew that her son had drawn 
Frank Carney from the way of peace. She never 
admitted it, nor did Mrs. Carney speak of it. But 
any one who knew the two old women could not 
help seeing that on one side was a desire to make 
amends, and on the other a determination to accept 
kindness simply because it relieved the one who 
conferred it. Each of these two old friends—they 


130 


HO IV PEASE US BECAME A STAR. 


were bom on the banks of the Suir, had crossed on 
the same ship, and had lost their husbands at the 
same time—bore her burden better because each 
thought the other’s was the heavier. At last old 
Mrs. Mahaffy died, blessing her son. He, being 
absent at a political convention, was not present to 
receive that blessing. And so great was this 
admirable man’s horror of superstition, and so strong 
his desire not to give bad example to his fellow- 
townsmen, that he telegraphed to his mother’s 
pastor to bury her at once with solemn services. 
He did this because he wanted to be sure of his 
nomination and because he did not care to be seen 
entering the Catholic church. Old Mrs. Carney, 
who had never said a word against Perseus, burst 
out at the funeral of her friend. “ If I had such a 
son,” she cried, “ I’d curse him! ” 

III. 

Perseus had begun to be a star when he married 
the late Judge Brodbeck’s daughter* Judge Brod- 
beck came of an old English family, but this would 
have mattered very little in the town of Cone City 
had not the judge made a great deal of money in 
railroad speculations. People said the railroads had 
influenced his decisions on the bench; but as he 
was rich there was a certain respect for him mixed 
with this censure. The judge had been the strict¬ 
est of strict Calvinists; his two children, the colonel 
and Clara, hated Presbyterianism. 


MAURICE FRANCIS EC-AN. 131 

Clara meeting Perseus by chance at one of the 
dancing assemblies, found him to be a pleasant 
contrast to the business-sodden men around her. 
And the colonel, her brother, who saw that Perseus 
was vain as well as clever, did not object to the 
intimacy. When the marriage was announced 
Cone City was amazed. The ceremony was per¬ 
formed in the First Baptist Church, simply because 
Clara held that a religious ceremony was socially 
respectable. 

But on that day the mother of the bridegroom 
knelt before the crucifix in her little room. Her 
son had become an apostate to gain prosperity— 
he, the descendant of martyrs! After this Perseus 
had fewer scruples; the die was cast; his mother’s 
entreaties fell on callous ears. 

Colonel Brodbeck determined to take advantage 
of Perseus’ vanity, as well as of his cleverness. It 
was Perseus’ misfortune that his horizon was 
bounded by Cone City. No parvenu who had sud¬ 
denly married a princess could have been more 
elated than was Perseus by his marriage. 

“ You have given up your God, your soul,” his 
mother had said to him, “ for nothing.” 

11 I have never seen God or my soul, mother,” 
he had answered. “ See here, mother, I want a 
big house, I want to be rich, I want to be one of 
the best people of this town, and you can’t be that 
if you’re poor; for all these reasons I’ve married 
Clara Brodbeck. I’ll get the best out of life I can, 
and take my chances.” 


132 HOW PERSEUS BECAME A STAR. 

“ And you’ll turn your back on the Church and 
the priest for this! Sure, you’ve already joined a 
secret society.” 

“ Everybody knows that. As soon as I learned 
to read I learned that I must get on or live down 
here in this shanty, despised—nobody. I was born 
of the poor; everybody looked down on the 1 Irish 
boy ’—I’m no more Irish than they are English or 
German or anything else—and the Irish boy had 
patches on his clothes, and he went to the church 
to which only the hewers of wood and the drawers 
of water went.” 

“ And his mother was only a poor Irishwoman! ” 
said Mrs. Mahaffy, with a flash of sarcasm. 

“ She couldn’t help that-” 

“ But her son would have helped being her son, 
if he could.” 

Perseus reddened. He admitted the truth of this 
in his heart. 

“ You ought to be proud of me, mother. I’ve 
leaped over the bounds that kept me out of every¬ 
thing worth having. I have an assured position 
in the town, and my children will have all the 
advantages which I lacked. My wife is the most 
cultured woman-” 

“ God help us! ” interjected the mother, “ you’d 
think he was talking of Dublin after having married 
a great lord’s daughter! You’re too ignorant to 
know the miserable price for which you’ve sold your 
soul. Your grandmother starved in the famine 
rather than change her religion, or seem to change 




MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN. 


133 


it even for a moment. Why was your father poor ? 
Why were we exiles? For one reason only: we 
kept the faith.” 

I’ve heard all this before, mother,” he said, 
“ and there’s no money in it.” 

“ And you’re leading young Frank Carney away, 
too,” the old woman had said, exhausted and 
despondent. 

Perseus only shrugged his shoulders. He was 
satisfied that he had done the best he could for 
himself. The duty of making money was the first 
recognized in Cone City. “ Put money in thy 
purse,” the spirit of the town whispered through 
every medium. The churches were valued accord¬ 
ing to their financial status. The Presbyterians 
were in the ascendant in money matters; therefore 
their “ socials ” and meetings were best attended. 
The Catholic priest was respected because he paid 
his bills promptly and would not permit himself to 
be cheated. The Protestant-Episcopalians were 
poor, their minister was a Canadian of high-church 
proclivities, and though some “ nice people” sat 
under him—people who wore diamonds and seal¬ 
skin—yet they were, as a rule, “ looked down 
on. ” 

Perseus must have been stronger than he was to 
have escaped the fever of money-making. He 
saw that in a Protestant and highly total abstaining 
town, Colonel Brodbeck’s infidelity and moderate 
fondness for whiskey were condoned because of his 
wealth. Money could do anything, he concluded ; it 


134 


HOW PERSEUS BECAME A STAR. 


might even open the way socially to a Catholic, pro¬ 
vided he were not too Irish. He had a somewhat 
better education than the other boys; for Father 
Deschamps taught the little school—he was too 
poor to pay a teacher. When Perseus had left it 
and gone to the district school, the kind priest, 
discerning the boy's talent, had made him read 
Cicero and Virgil. Father Deschamps was replaced 
by another pastor, and Perseus was left to the 
deadening influence around him. Having planned 
his career, he was somewhat relieved to have Father 
Deschamps go. And yet he never felt that he was 
ungrateful; he became so entirely absorbed in his 
desire to be rich that it seemed only right that all 
the world should aid. He became his own Buddha; 
he was rapidly losing himself in self. 

Colonel Brodbeck admired Perseus’ capabilities. 
“ If the fellow,” he said to himself, “ only knew 
his ability, and if his confounded snobbishness did 
not prevent him seeing how superior he is to these 
Cone City chumps, he’d get away from here as soon 
as possible. But he looks on the Cone City settler 
as one of a superior race.” 

The colonel grinned sardonically, and opened a 
letter about the selling of the Cone City water-front 
to the new railroad company, whose stock was 
mostly owned in Chicago. 

“ Ah! ” he said, “ we shall find some work here 
for Perseus.” 

Perseus was sent to Congress. And just before 
the day of election the rival candidate brought out 


MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN 


*35 


the old story about his having changed his name. 
Both of the Cone City papers had his mother “ in¬ 
terviewed.” According to the friendly journalist, 
she was a “ handsome old lady, living in opulence 
provided by an adoring son.” The other journal 
said she was a “ decent old woman, bowed down 
by her son’s neglect, and living in comparative 
squalor.” All the old woman could be induced to 
say was that she “ would not have cared how often 
‘ the Boy ’ changed his name, if he had only stuck 
to his religion.” 

This brought a card from Perseus. He protested 
that religion had no place in politics. His religion 
was his private affair. He would allow no human 
being to interfere between him and his God. His 
Irish friends, he hoped, would remember that, 
though an American in every fibre of his being, he 
loved, next to the principles of 1776 , the principles 
of Home Rule. While he lived he would oppose 
any state tax on church property. To be honest 
was the first commandment of his religion; and he 
hoped, in Congress, to show that this religion in¬ 
fluenced every act. 

The card was effective; the Home Rule phrase 
and that about church property helped him very 
much, though he promised the Methodist minister 
to lecture at an early date on “ Roman Tyranny,” 
—a promise which he did not intend to keep. 

To be frank, Perseus believed that he was only 
diplomatic, not dishonest; he often said to himself 
that people did not know how good he was. His 


136 HOW PERSEUS BECAME A STAR. 

wife’s indifference about religion annoyed him. He 
held that a woman ought to be religious; but Clara 
laughed. 

“ The children shall choose their own religion,” 
she said one evening, after one of the Cone City 
functions called a “ coffee.” Sixty leading Cone 
City ladies had eaten chicken salad and ices with 
her from three until six, and the probable conver¬ 
sion of one of their number to Catholicity had been 
discussed. “ Cora Bramber is going to turn Cath¬ 
olic, and I must say I like her spirit.” 

“ I thought you hated Catholics,” Perseus 
said. 

“ I ? Good gracious, no! I think they are more 
consistent than other denominations. And I don’t 
see why they should be held responsible for the 
awful things the Jesuits and popes did long ago. 
I’m sure the Puritans were bad enough.” 

“You wouldn’t want the children to be Cath¬ 
olics, Clara.” 

“ If they were rich and could do as they please, 
I think I would. But Providence, if there is a 
Providence, seems rather hard on people when he 
makes them Catholic and poor at the same time. 
The children must have some religion or other. I 
can keep straight without religion; I’ve a natural 
tendency towards respectability, and you’re a good 
husband; but Perseus, I wouldn’t trust anybody 
else. I’m thinking of sending Clara to a convent 
school.” 

Perseus set down his coffee cup in amazement— 


MAURICE FRAJVC/S EGAN. 


137 


he was in the act of making a collation from the 
remains of the afternoon feast. 

“ I won’t have it,” he said; “ it would ruin the 
girl’s prospects, Clara. Who’d marry a Catholic 
here, and if she goes to a convent, she might-” 

“ If there’s anything that exasperates me,” 
answered his wife, calmly washing the silver, “ it’s 
your foolish reverence for Cone City people. 
They’re only people who came here to earn a living; 
they’re the sort of people who go to Europe every 
year to complete an education that was never 
begun at home. If Clara has money, she might be 
a Mohammedan. Haven’t you learned that yet ? 
She’ll be safe in a convent school.” 

“ Well, I’ll lose the Methodist vote, that’s all.” 

11 No, you won’t, nor the Baptist either. The 
anti-church-tax-property stand holds all denomina¬ 
tions. Besides, haven’t I given five hundred dollars 
for the Methodist chapel? You’ll gain more Cath¬ 
olic votes than you ever had. Anyhow, I will have 
Clara well taken care of. I know our boarding- 
schools too well. The nuns may make her narrow¬ 
minded, but they’ll keep her gentle. The others 
make their girls both narrow-minded and aggres- 

j y 

sive. 

Perseus was silent. After all, it was like the 
sound of far-off bells, sweet to his ears, to think 
that his child might say the same old prayers and 
kneel before the tabernacle. Nevertheless he would 
not sacrifice anything for this. As Clara took the 
responsibility, he left it to her. He was resolved 



138 HOW PERSEUS BECAME A STAR . 

that the boys should not be handicapped by 
religion. 

He took his wife to the opera-house that night 
to hear her brother lecture on “ The Beautiful in 
Life.” The theatre was crowded. The colonel 
was very florid in his speech. He said that beauty 
was religion, and if religion and the enjoyment of 
the beautiful were opposed, religion must go. 
“ If God is a God of terror,” he repeated, “ God 
must go; when men’s souls shall have attuned 
themselves to the grace of the Venus of Milo 
rather than to Churchly ideas of womanhood, when 
the use of money shall mean more beauty in life, 
then virtue and sensuous enjoyment shall be one 
and life be complete.” 

“ I suppose you’d like Clara to hear that kind of 
stuff,” Perseus’ wife said as they drove home. 

“ It was very pretty,” said Perseus; “ I don’t 
quite see what it means; it certainly makes religion 
very attractive. Like you, the colonel does not 
seem to need religion in order to be good.” 

His wife laughed. “ I don’t know about that; 
but I know what he means—he means free love. 
As for religion, we all need it. Do you know, if 
you had stuck to your religion I should have had 
more respect for you, and it is probable I might 
have become a Catholic myself. There are times, 
Perseus, when your silly admiration for Cone City 
makes you very tiresome. As for my brother, 
can’t you see that he is not a good man ? He 
believes in God in his heart, of course he does! 


MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN. 


139 


The way he protests against it shows that he does. 
As for myself, I dislike any unreasonable and illogi¬ 
cal belief founded on man’s dictum and the Bible. 
But I don’t know Catholicism. I might like it. 
We all need religion—my brother worse than any¬ 
body I know,” she added with a short laugh. 
** There is nothing in our times, except religion, to 
keep a woman from dropping a husband she does 
not like and taking one she does; and no religion 
can do it effectively except yours—I beg pardon, 
I mean the religion you have progressed out of. 
There’s Mrs. Churton—she’s been divorced twice, 
and yet she’s head and front among the Congrega- 
tionalists.” 

“ You don’t mean to say that you’d-” Per¬ 

seus almost gasped, as he turned to his wife. 

“ I don’t mean to say anything but that Clara 
shall be fortified against the dangers that would 
beset me if I cared for any other man than you.” 

This was frank enough. Perseus shuddered as he 
heard it. He imagined his mother saying such a 
thing! No; toil-worn, uneducated, old-fashioned 
as she was, there was a bloom of innocence and 
womanliness about his mother which his wife 
lacked. Such frankness gradually built up a wall 
of distrust between them. Later, she differed with 
him almost habitually; and she was generally right. 
Finally, she came almost to despise him. 

The question of the sale of the water-front came 
up. Perseus and Colonel Brodbeck opposed it. It 
meant robbery. It would open the door to mo- 



140 


HOW PERSEUS BECAME A STAR. 


nopoly. It was an outrage on the rights of the 
people. It was because of his course in this matter 
that he was sent to Congress a third time, and was 
enabled to second some of his brother-in-law’s 
schemes very effectively. Frank Carney had been 
his constant supporter. Frank had now no legiti¬ 
mate business; he was devoted to politics, he lived 
by subsidies from the Hon. Perseus and Colonel 
Brodbeck. He was their slave, and the more self- 
respect he lost the more valuable he became. 
Somebody must do the dirty work in politics, and 
Frank’s hand, once in the mire, did a great deal of 
it. His mother said this to him about Easter-time, 
when she was urging him to go to his “ duty.” 

“ I can’t, mother,” he said; “ don’t ask me. 
I’d have to get out of politics if I did. When I’ve 
made my pile,” he added, with a rather timid 
attempt at a laugh, “ I’ll repent.” 

“ They say that you and Colonel Brodbeck have 
robbed right and left. I can’t bear to hear such 
things. ” 

“ Oh! it’s newspaper lies. Don’t you see the 
colonel is a big man for all that ? It doesn’t make 
much difference in this country where you get 
money, so that you get it.” 

The old woman could only cry and wring her 
hands. She saw that her son had begun to drink, 
and it was said that he gambled. Prayer, constant 
and unwearying, was her only resource. 

The railroad company wanted the water-front 
badly. Its counsel and directors knew that Colonel 


MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN, 141 

Brodbeckand Perseus controlled the council of Cone 
City, of which the colonel was the attorney. Had 
the colonel and the Hon. Perseus a price ? An 
answer to this question was easily obtained through 
Frank Carney. They had, and it was high. Perseus 
was at first inclined to be honest, but the colonel 
laughed at him. 

“ Nonsense,” he said, “ that sort of thing went 
out of fashion with religion. You felt yourself 
trammelled in the process of making your career 
by your Catholicism, and you gave it up. Why 
should you keep up the bondage after you’ve 
emancipated yourself ? It ought to be a whole hog 
or none. There’s no confession to be afraid of 
now.” 

Perseus laughed uneasily. He had the feeling 
tl as if ”—his mother would have said it—“ some¬ 
body was walking over his grave.” 

His wife was shocked by the change of view on 
the waterside question. She spoke her opinion 
very plainly. “ I might have known,” she said in 
her most cutting tones, “ that it was a risk to marry 
an apostate, but I never imagined this disgrace. 
Oh! my brother ? My brother is an infidel, but 
you pretend to be a Christian still! ” 

After this Perseus knew that his wife despised 
him, though he had cleaved the ether and was a 
star. He winced under sarcasm; ridicule withered 
him; he distrusted her. What guarantee had he 
that she, not looking at their bond from the 
point of view of duty, might not desert him at any 


142 


HOW PERSEUS BECAME A STAR. 


moment ? Clara, his daughter, was at a convent 
school; his boys were also away; his life was 
wretchedly unhappy—but it was growing richer in 
this world’s goods every day. 

The “ deal” between the Cone City syndicate 
and the railroad company had been arranged very 
neatly through Frank Carney. There had been no 
tell-tale checks in the matter. Frank had delivered 
thirty thousand dollars to two of the most potent 
men. The council had been managed, but no 
one knew who did it, so that while popular in¬ 
dignation struck the council, it never even glanced 
on the colonel and his brother-in-law. It was 
cleverly arranged— : there was no scandal; Perseus 
admired his diplomacy and his success, for thirty 
thousand dollars was a great sum in Cone City, and 
yet it was the beginning of disaster. 

Frank Carney, good-natured, plastic, credulous, 
began to see that he was only a tool. He had been 
almost ignored in the division of the spoil. He 
feared Perseus and the colonel too much to find 
fault openly. But his discontent was growing. 
He was in this mood in the spring, when Easter 
came again. His mother met him one morning, 
just after old Mrs. Mahaffy’s death; she stood and 
looked at him with yearning eyes. He had been 
drinking all night; but he was sober enough. 

“ What is it, mother ? ” he said. 

“ What is it, dear ? I’m just thinking that I’d 
give the world to have my own boy back 
again. 


MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN. 143 

In the early sunlight as she turned away, Frank 
saw a tear on her cheek. 

“ If God helps me, you shall, mother/’ he called 
after her; and then he said to himself: “ She’s 
worth it all; I’ll surprise her; I’m tired of the 
mud.” 


IV. 

It happened that the Hon. Perseus G. Mahaffy 
and Colonel Brodbeck were asked to speak before 
a spring meeting of the Farmers’ Alliance one 
Saturday night. The colonel made an address 
which was not well received. It was not vaguely 
atheistical—it was not humorously atheistical; it 
was openly immoral—a plea for “ affinities,” an 
apology for a law granting easier divorces. It was 
hissed by the farmers who had tolerated his jokes 
on the Divinity and his amusing caricatures of 
modern Calvinism. Going home with Perseus and 
Frank Carney, his humor was ferocious. The 
“Beautiful”—not even Goethe’s “Helena” or 
the march in “ Lohengrin ”—could have made him 
less savage. It was strange that the panaceas 
recommended by the colonel for other people rarely 
answered for himself. 

The three were walking; it was a moonlight 
night. Perseus was well satisfied with himself; 
Frank Carney was moody. They were passing the 
arbor-vitae hedge which separated his mother’s 
little house from the road. 


144 


HOW PERSEUS BECAME A STAR. 


“ Do you know, colonel, I have concluded to go 
back to my first love and get out of your infidel 
clique, and likewise out of politics ? You haven’t 
treated me right; but that makes no difference 
now. I’m going into the insurance business at 
Oxhart next week, and I shall follow my conscience. 
I’m a Catholic at heart and I’ll be one practically, 
with God’s help, after this. A speech like the one 
you made to-night ought to make us all relig¬ 
ious.” 

” Who hasn’t treated you right ? ” The colonel 
stood still and confronted Carney. 

“You ought to know.” They were standing 
near the new railroad embankment, and Carney 
paused near the edge to answer the colonel. 

“ I suppose you mean that as a threat,” sneered 
the colonel. “ I suppose you think we’re afraid 
you’ll go and confess certain little things to a priest. 
But you can’t frighten us. If you want money, 
why don’t you say so, instead of trying a monkey 
trick like this ? ” 

Frank Carney’s face turned ashy. 

” I don’t want thieves’ money.” 

He had no sooner spoken the words than the 
colonel raised his fist. Frank Carney tried to guard 
himself; the colonel struck him, and he fell down 
the embankment, a descent of twenty feet. He lay 
still among the stones; then he groaned. Perseus 
and the colonel went to the ladder at the side, and 
with some effort dragged him up to the hedge near 
his mother’s house. There was a deep cut on his 


MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN. 


45 


forehead, and another on the back of his head; his 
face was white. The colonel felt his pulse. 

“ He can’t live.” 

The wounded man opened his eyes, and his lips 
moved in a mute appeal. 

“He wants a priest,” whispered Perseus. “ Stay 
with him, while I run to the town; it’s not half a 
mile.” 

The colonel showed his white teeth. 

“ A priest, you fool! Do you want him to ruin 
us with his silly nonsense ? He knows too much. 
Let him confess to us; we’ll keep his secrets.” 

“ He must have a priest, colonel.” 

Again the dying man opened his lips and tried 
to raise his hands. 

The colonel looked at Perseus in his ugliest way. 
“ You’re a nice person to be talking of priests—you 
that pretend to hate them. I can’t afford to have 
a priest come here; neither can you! ” 

Perseus stood irresolute. He felt as if he were 
killing a soul. But he had let the colonel’s evil 
will dominate him so long that he could not resist 
it now. At the same time his last hope of all better 
things seemed to die out as he steeled his heart 
against Frank Carney’s whisper, “ A priest.” 

Carney’s voice grew stronger in his agony: “ For 
God’s sake, get me Father Lovel—he’s not far— 
my mother. It’s all I ask. I can’t stand this much 
longer.” 

“ You hear his confession, if you’re so anxious 
about it,” said the colonel, mockingly. 


146 HOW PERSEUS BECAME A STAR. 


Perseus had become accustomed to wince at that 
tone. He turned away from the agonized face of 
his friend, and went down the road; and then it 
seemed to him that his own soul went to hell and a 
devil of despair took possession of his body. The 
colonel soon rejoined him, and spoke in his coolest 
voice. 

“ He’s dead. The thing’s awkward; but I just 
dropped my whiskey-flask into his pocket and 
rolled him down the embankment. Everybody 
knows he drank. That will account for it all when 
he’s found. We’ll say he left us at the Junction. 
The idiot! ” 

Nobody cared much, except Frank’s old mother. 
She heard that he had died almost at her door. 
The whiskey-flask part of the story was mercifully 
kept from her. “ It accounted for it all,” as the 
colonel had predicted. 

But the Hon. Perseus Mahaffy was never quite 
himself again. One night, in the autumn, he made 
a great speech at the closing dinner of the trustees 
of the County Fair. It was said to be the effort of 
his life. The colonel, who had noticed the change 
in him since the night of Frank Carney’s death, 
watched his face intently. At first he sneered at 
the orator’s grandiloquence; then his expression 
became more serious. When the Hon. Perseus 
began his peroration and was interrupted by cheers 
for the Star of Golung Creek, the colonel noticed a 
fixed look in his eyes, and when he again attempted 
to go on he stammered. Suddenly the words 


MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN. 147 

seemed to freeze on his lips; he looked at the large 
pyramid of fruit and flowers before him as if it were 
a human being of threatening aspect. The colonel 
jumped up and caught him as he was falling, crying 
out, “ What’s the matter ? ” 

‘‘ I thought I saw his ghost,” he whispered. 
“ It has killed me; for God’s sake, send for a 
priest! ” 

“Nonsense!” returned the colonel. “What 
good will a priest do you ? Here, take this brandy.” 

Perseus thrust the little glass away from him. 

“ A priest! ” he whispered again and again. But 
the group around him thought he was raving. 
Who among them had ever connected him with a 
priest ? The sneer came back to the colonel’s face 
as he made room for the doctor. In less than an 
hour he was in convulsions. He never spoke 
again; the horror of it all was that his eyes remained 
open, and the look in their depth was as if he 
longed to speak. At last, a look of agony crossed 
his face as if he saw an awful thing. Then he died. 

The doctor gave his disease a medical name; the 
colonel said to himself that it was superstition, 
acting on a weak mind. And his last words had 
been: “ Success, gentlemen, is not measured by 
material prosperity. It consists in being true to 
ideals, in sacrificing all aims and objects which are 
not truth’s. That is success in the sight of God. 
All other things named success are illusions.” 

His daughter did not forget the face of the old 
woman who had pulled her mother’s frock at the 


148 HOW PERSEUS BECAME A STAR. 

funeral. She found out her name and made her 
acquaintance. Poor Mrs. Carney prayed for her 
son as only a mother in doubt about a son’s soul 
can pray. 

“ If I only knew how he died!” Mrs. Carney 
wailed constantly; “ if I only knew how he died! 
I’ve often thought your father might know whether 
he was prepared or not.” 

Clara understood her; she knew that the mother’s 
thoughts were on her son’s soul. She could say 
nothing; she did not dream that her father and the 
colonel knew only too well. 

It happened that just before the summer vaca¬ 
tion, Clara at the convent had finished a little pic¬ 
ture of the Sacred Heart for Mrs. Carney. The 
chaplain, Father Morgan, was about to go to Cone 
City, and he had promised to take charge of it for 
her. Clara knew that the sight of his genial face 
would do Mrs. Carney good. 

‘‘ Mrs. Carney,” he said, reading the address. 
il Is that the mother of the poor young man who 
died under such strange circumstances last spring ? 
Ah! indeed,” he continued musingly, in answer to 
Clara’s assent. “ I saw him that very afternoon. 
I was hearing confessions in the German church, 
and he came to me just as I was leaving the box. 
He introduced himself and asked for some advice 
about the examination of his conscience. I 
answered him by taking him back to the box and 
hearing his confession. Poor young man! ” 

Clara’s cheeks glowed, her eyes sparkled. She 


MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN. 


149 


had found out how Frank Carney died; now she 
knew that he had passed from earth with the cleans¬ 
ing dew of absolution upon him. She thanked 
Father Morgan and ran off to get permission from 
the mother-superior to go with him to Cone City; 
she gave her reason, and as a great and special favor 
it was granted. 

“ What would you like most to have? ” she asked, 
when the old woman had greeted the priest and 
kissed her. 

“ To know that I should see my boy again in 
heaven, to know that he died well,” she answered 
with a tremor in her voice. Then Clara and Father 
Morgan made her happy. 

Colonel Brodbeck has begun to have more than a 
local reputation. His “ Life of the Honorable Per - 
sens G . Mahaffy ” is much praised. The descrip¬ 
tion of Perseus’ “ conversion” from Romanism to 
a serene state of religious indifference is particularly 
well done. His sister seldom sees him ; she is in 
doubt. “ If I were anything,” she says, “ I would 
be a Catholic, like Clara—that is, if all Catholics 
were like her. But Perseus’ example and the 
example of so many like him make me pause. 
There’s plenty of time.” And she says to herself: 
“ I’ll send the boys to a Catholic school next year, 
in the hope that they will grow up unlike Perseus 
and the colonel.” 

When the Rev. Mr. Schuyler remonstrates with 
her, she tells him that she has tried Calvinism and 
agnosticism, and found them hollow; what is left to 


150 HOW PERSEUS BECAME A STAR. 

her but the Church ? And then she wonders why 
Perseus turned away from it. “He must have 
been weak,” she thinks, with a curl of her lip; she 
cannot say this to him; he has gone. 



There was a time, not so long ago, when there were no 
Catholic boys in fiction, that is, no boys of one’s own 
species in the books which boys read as idealized pictures of 
their own lives. There were plenty of good little boys who 
were always undergoing persecution for the sake of their 
religion, and of smart boys who always had the best of an 
argument with the minister, but there were no pictures of 
the real American Catholic boy. In the great crowd of 
story-writers there was none to give a picture of the life of 
the American Catholic boy. Suddenly, while most of us 






















were bewailing the fate of our children without books 
specially their own, Father Finn came. He has never 
told us whether he thought he had a mission to boys or not. 
Probably not, since “Tom Playfair” was written with no 
idea of publication. But the boys liked him and his books 
better than any books they had read, because he understood 
them and because when he wrote he became a boy again. 

It is the kindness, the cheerfulness, the earnest sympathy, 
and the idealism of Father Finn that makes boys love him. 
By idealism we mean his power of illuminating the boy so 
that he sees himself as he would like to be ; and his power, 
too, of showing the boys’ teacher as he ought to be. 

Father Finn takes the boy as he is; he has no illusions 
about him,—but he strives to make him better by showing 
that boys may be honorable and spiritual-minded without 
losing all the qualities which the growing man esteems and 
loves in his heroes. And what the boy loves in his heroes 
he strives'to imitate. 

Father Finn was born at St. Louis on October 4, 1859. 
He entered the Society of Jesus on March 4th, 1879, 
and was ordained priest in 1893. He was Professor in St. 
Louis University and in St. Mary’s College, Kansas, and 
Professor of English Literature in Marquette College, 
Milwaukee. 

Father Finn’s published books are: “Percy Wynn,” 
“Tom Playfair,” “Harry Dee,” “Claude Lightfoot.” 
“Mostly Boys,” “ Faces Old and New,” “Ada Merton,” 
“ Ethelred Preston.” He is at present engaged on another 
story, which will no doubt be the equal of the others 


/IIM? Strange jfrfen&. 


BY FRANCIS J. FINN, S.J. 

I. 

A FEW days after Christmas, I was sitting in my 
room, nursing an incipient cold, and wondering 
when my health would permit me to return to the 
seminary. At this period of my life, I was heir to 
many ills, prominent among which was the dyspep¬ 
sia. Headache in the morning from eight to ten, 
headache in the afternoon from two till about four, 
headache at night from seven indefinitely, then 
bed;—this constituted my daily order, dull enough 
surely in the reading, but painfully dismal in the 
realization. 

The cessation of my morning headache was almost 
due, when my sister, singing gayly, tripped into 
my room with a letter, which she handed me with 
a mock bow. 

“ I am very much obliged to you, my dear, for 
bringing me this letter/’ I remarked; “ but now 
really couldn’t you dispense with your feminine 
war-whoop when you’re in my room ? ” 
i53 


154 


MY STRANGE FRTEXD. 


“ Oh, you great, big, dyspeptic bear,” she laughed 
out, “ you want me to take pattern after yourself, 
and go about like an unsuccessful undertaker ? ” 

I felt my gorge rising at her remark, and was 
tempted to say something ungracious and bitter, as 
she danced out through the door-way. That's the 
way with us dyspeptics; we have no sympathy for 
sweet human life, and are especially high with our 
near relatives. 

Without stopping, however, to analyze my feel¬ 
ings, I tore open the letter and read: 


Fairmoun’t Grove, Jan . 12, 1S74. 

Mr. Thomas Maxon: 

Dear old Tom, I can never forgive myself the 
language I used previous to our parting. What a 
pity that supper ever came off at all. But I am 
now so heartily ashamed and penitent that I know 
you will forgive and forget. And now you can do 
me a great, a very great service, and I feel positive 
that you will not refuse me. I have heard that you 
are unwell. Come out here in the pure country’ air 
and spend a month with me. It will surely’ do y’ou 
good, while bey-ond all doubt it will serve me 
untold gain. O my’ dear, dear friend (for I trust 
that y 7 ou have already forgiven me, and are my’ 
friend again), come and see me. I have changed 
greatly’, and am very miserable. The strange dark¬ 
ness that has come over my’ life, I may’ not, cannot 
tell. Some terrible power imposes silence upon 
me, though I would give worlds to confide it to 
ymi, dear Tom. But come, come; let y’ourself be 
the answer to this note. Ever y’our loving friend, 

Wilber Stoxe. 


FRANCIS J. FINN, S.J. 


l 55 

I read this letter with mingled sentiments of 
pleasure and of pain; pleasure, that it reconciled me 
with the dearest friend of my boyhood; pain, that 
judging by the tenor of his communication, a terri¬ 
ble, saddening change had come upon him. 

Wilber Stone and myself had been chums at 
college. Beginning together, we had gone on from 
class to class, dividing (let me say in all modesty) 
the honors between us. While studying Rhetoric, 
a prize was offered for the best essay on Long¬ 
fellow. We were both admirers of the poet, and 
set to work at the task with ardor. The day before 
the essays were to be handed in, Wilber, on invita¬ 
tion, came to my house to see my paper. He read 
it carefully, praising what pleased him, and, like a 
true friend, frankly pointing out what he considered 
its defects. 

“ Well, Wilber,” I said when he had finished, 
“ suppose you let me see your own essay.” 

“ Willingly,” he answered, and took from his 
coat a bundle of manuscript. 

I read it eagerly. 

“ It’s no use my handing in,” I remarked, when 
I had come to the end of it. “ Your essay will 
certainly take first place: no boy in the class can 
come near it.” 

“ You think it better than your own ? ” 

“ Better! ” I exclaimed warmly. “ Why, Wil¬ 
ber, I couldn't write like that in a years time. 
Yes, Wilber, my boy. I’m beaten squarely.” 

A strange look came over his face. But, instead 




MY STRANGE FRIEND. 


of continuing the conversation, he caught up his 
hat, bade me good evening, and abruptly left the 
house. 

A month later the gold medal was awarded. 

“ The prize for the best essay on Longfellow is 

awarded to-” Here the vice-president of the 

college paused to clear his throat. I was sitting 
next to Wilber, and patted him on the back. 

“ Get ready to go up, old boy,” I whispered. 

Wilber’s face was strangely pale; and so nervous 
had he grown that he was unable to return my smile. 

“ Is awarded,” the vice-president continued, “ to 
Thomas Maxon.” 

This was one of the greatest surprises of my 
school life. Amidst hearty applause, I found my¬ 
self—how I got there I know not—on the stage, 
receiving from the hands of the president the gold 
medal. But I was far from being satisfied. 

“ Wilber,” I said, when I had regained my seat, 
“ this is a mistake.” 

“ Next in merit,” continued the vice-president, 
now that the applause had subsided, “ George 
Murray and Francis Elaine.” 

“What!” I gasped. “Why you’re not even 
mentioned. I’m going to ask our professor about 
this just as soon as this affair is over.” 

“ No, no, Tom,” whispered Wilber more nervous 
than before; “ you mustn’t do any such thing. 
You have honestly earned the medal.” 

I attributed his nervousness and his words to 
bitter disappointment. 



FRANCIS /. FINN , 5 ./. 


157 


“ But I will,” I answered hotly, for I was burning 
with indignation at what I could not but consider a 
cruel mistake. 

My dear friend spent some time in persuading 
me not to make any inquiries in the matter; but 
he was unsuccessful. 

11 Mr. Warden,” I said, touching my cap to my 
professor, as we met outside the exhibition hall, 
“ how is it that Wilber got no mention for his essay 
on Longfellow? I read it, and felt sure that his was 
far superior to mine.” 

“ The reason is simple,” answered Mr. Warden. 
“ Wilber neglected to hand in his essay.” 

Then the truth flashed upon me. I turned away 
with the tears standing in my eyes. The medal 
was now indeed valuable to me; it was the sacred 
memorial of a heroic act of friendship. 

But poor Wilber, noble as he was, had grave 
faults. He exhibited two traits which made me 
tremble for his future. One was an ungovernable 
pride, the other, an outgrowth of the first, an un¬ 
willingness to take advice. He went through life 
“ at his own sweet will.” 

The latter defect came into prominence during 
our year of philosophy. He grew captious about 
revealed truth, sneered at the classic answers to 
philosophical and theological difficulties, and occa¬ 
sionally gave voice to opinions which shocked me. 
Despite my protestations and the warning of some 
of the professors, who took a deep interest in him, 
he chose as a friend a fellow-student whose stand- 


MY STRANGE FRIEND. 


158 

ing, both as to class and to character, was at the 
lowest. Insensibly there arose a coolness between 
us; not that we ceased to be friends, but that our 
plans and pursuits had become so widely divergent. 

On the night of Commencement exercises, we 
philosophers, having finished our course, sat down 
to a parting banquet before separating in the great 
world. 

The first hour passed pleasantly enough, though 
I noticed with uneasiness that Wilber was drinking 
freely. By and by the talk turned upon the vale¬ 
dictory which I had delivered. 

“ The allusion to Our Lord you brought in,” said 
one, “ was very beautiful, and, at the same time, 
came in so naturally.” 

Wilber gave a scornful laugh,—such a laugh that 
conversation came to a stop, and all eyes turned 
upon him. 

Then, flushed with Avine, he spoke such words of 
Our Saviour as I have not the heart to record. 

Every one present was aghast at the blasphemous 
language; many looked at me. They knew that I 
was shortly to enter a seminary, and seemed by 
common consent to place me in the position of 
spokesman. 

“ Wilber,” I said, rising, and the pain I felt at 
that moment I shall never forget, “ I cannot stay in 
your company, if you choose to speak such lan¬ 
guage.” 

“ Free country, young Levite,” cried Wilber, his 
face hardening with pride. “ We’re not in the 


FA A NCIS /. FINN , S.J. 159 

class-room now, Deacon, and I’ll say just what I 
please.” 

Then he went on to utter further blasphemy. 
With a heavy heart, I left the room whilst he was 
still speaking, followed by all except Wilber and his 
evil genius, the classmate against whom he had been 
so vainly warned. On the following day Wilber 
departed for the East with his family; and though 
one year and a half had gone by from the time of 
that unhappy banquet, I had not seen him since. 

On re-reading his letter, I decided to comply with 
his request at once, and accordingly I arrived at the 
depot near Fairmount Grove that afternoon at 
three o’clock. 

What was my dismay when I saw awaiting me at 
the depot not the gay, handsome athletic Wilber of 
college days, but a sad, gaunt, hollow-eyed young 
man, so changed in appearance that I could hardly 
bring myself to believe it was the same person. 

As he caught my eyes, his face lighted up with 
pleasure. 

“ O Tom, Tom! how glad, how very glad I am 
to see you.” 

I rushed forward to give him a hearty hand¬ 
shake, but he drew back with an air of timidity ill- 
befitting the bold Wilber of former days. Recover¬ 
ing himself by an evident effort, he took my hand 
in his. He held it for a moment in a cold, pressure¬ 
less grasp, and then drew back as though he had 
done a guilty deed. 

“ Your hand is cold,” he said nervously. 


160 MY STRANGE FRIEND. 

I looked at him closely, but the welcome on his 
face belied his actions. I was puzzled. 

“ You find something strange about me, Tom,” 
he said in reply to my look, 11 but if you only knew 
all. Don’t think that you are not most welcome. 
Here, jump in,” he added, motioning to a sleigh 
that I knew to be his. 

As we jingled along to Fairmount Grove, we fell 
into an earnest talk about old times in the course 
of which, however, through motives of delicacy, I 
avoided bringing in a single allusion to matters of 
religion, fearing that perhaps it might awaken un¬ 
pleasant memories. 

“ So you are studying for the priesthood ? ” he 
resumed after a short lull in our conversation. 

“ Yes, Wilber; and I hope to give my whole life 
to the service of God.” 

What was my astonishment when, at the mention 
of the sacred name, he released one hand from its 
hold upon the reins, and lifted his hat with an air 
of devotion that was a sermon in itself. 

“ Ah, Wilber,” I cried in delight, “ I knew it 
would end so; I knew that you would come back to 
the old way of looking at things.” 

He turned his face towards mine, and with a 
frightened, wistful expression in his eyes, asked: 

“ Tom, what does our divine Lord say about the 
scandalizing of little ones ? ” 

“ It were better that a millstone were placed 
about the scandalizer’s neck, and that he were cast 
into the depth of the sea.” 


FRANCIS J. FINN , S.J. 


161 


“ Just so,” he responded with a sigh, and an 
expression that was pitiful, “ and yet He is such 
a good, such a merciful God, too.” 

“ Indeed, He is,” I answered. “ We can none 
of us begin to understand how tenderly God loves 
us.” 

“ Say that again,” he said softly, while a smile 
warmed his face into melancholy beauty. 

I repeated my words, and continued to talk in 
the same strain, as I saw what evident pleasure the 
subject afforded him. When I had come to a 
pause, he added: 

“ And yet He is so terrible in His denunciations 
of those who scandalize His little ones.” 

“ Yes,” I made reply, ** but there is forgiveness 
for them if they repent. But cheer up, Wilber; 
what makes you so sad ? ” 

“ I have many reasons, Tom. Just one month 
ago mother died.” 

“ Indeed!—your mother dead ? O Wilber! why 
didn’t you let me know ? It must have been an 
awful blow to you.” 

“ But that’s not the worst, Tom. I knew for a 
month before that some one very dear to me was 
going to die.” 

I was again amazed. 

“ How in the world did you know that? ” 

“ I can’t tell, Tom, but listen ”—his voice sank 
to a whisper —“ what day of the month is this ? ” 

“ The fourteenth of January.” 

“ Very well, on the twentieth of January—” 


162 


MY STRANGE FRIEND. 


here he paused while the lines upon his face indi¬ 
cated some terrible agony—“ on the twentieth of 
January—O my God!—some one else dear to me 
will die.” 

The groan which accompanied his ejaculation sent 
a shiver through me; I began to fear that I was in 
the company of a madman. But he read my 
thoughts as though I had framed them in words. 

“ No, no: it is no hallucination; I am not out of 
my senses,” he exclaimed; “ nor can I now explain 
to you how I know such things; but what I say is 
true.” 

I made no reply, and my silence might have 
been awkward were it not for the fact that at this 
juncture we turned into the winding roadway which 
leads up to the spacious country house of Fairmount 
Grove. Standing at the gate was a bevy of boys 
and girls from the tot of three to the hoiden of 
fifteen, smiling and waving hats and handkerchiefs 
at my delighted self. I remembered them all—the 
“ tigers” was my name for them—and, if signals of 
welcome go for anything, they remembered me. 

“ Hurrah!” cried Charlie, the oldest lad of the 
group, a cousin of Wilber’s, “ here’s Uncle Tom 
come at last.” 

Though I was in nowise related to any of Wilber’s 
cousins, they had insisted on calling me Uncle Tom 
from the first time that I showed myself to their 
delighted eyes in the full dress of young man¬ 
hood. 

No sooner had the horse come to a stop before 


FRANCIS J. FINN, S.J. 


163 


the gate than all the tigers, with the exception of 
the two older ones, sprang upon me with a series 
of joyful screams and friendly struggles, pulled me 
from my seat and out of the vehicle, and cast me 
down into a deep bank of snow, the more astute of 
them in the meanwhile emptying my overcoat 
pockets of various small packages, which, little 
rogues, they knew I would not fail to bring by way 
of a peace-offering. 

We had a merry time of it on that winter after¬ 
noon, the tigers pulling me this way and that, forc¬ 
ing me to play the elephant, exhausting my entire 
stock of fairy tales, then clamoring for more, and, 
in fine, exacting of their Uncle Tom ample amends 
for his long absence. It was great fun for them, 
and, I may add without apology, for myself, too; 
for I love little children, and sincerely pity the man 
who does not. 

Throughout this round of amusement, Wilber had 
contented himself with being merely an onlooker. 
He witnessed our rompings and tumblings with a 
strange, sad, timorous, yet pleased expression, and 
whenever he spoke to the children, it was in so 
sweet a voice, in so gentle a manner, that one 
would think he was addressing himself to superior 
beings. As we were going up the stairway at bed¬ 
time, I made a remark to that effect. 

“You are right, Tom,” he answered: “I do 
regard them as superior beings; for they are, God 
be thanked for it, pure and innocent, and whenever 
I am in their company, I cannot help bearing in 


164 


MY STRANGE FRIEND. 


mind that their guardian angels ever see the face of 
their Father who is in heaven.” 

Once more was I impressed with the thrilling, 
awe-inspiring reverence of his voice and expression. 
It was such a change in Wilber, who of all my 
school companions and friends had ever been the 
least reverent. 

“ Here,” he continued, throwing open a door, 
“ this is your room. It is next to mine.” 

“ Good,” I said; 4< if I feel at all wakeful, which 
is not at all likely after the events of this day, I 
will give you a call.” 

With an air of secrecy, he closed the door, and 
said to me in a tone of voice which was little more 
than a whisper: 

“ Tom, my friend, if I should happen to come in 
here during the night at any time, you wouldn’t 
mind it, would you ? ” 

“ Certainly not, Wilber: you shall be most wel¬ 
come,” I replied, though I must confess that I 
could not control a motion of astonishment. 

“ Thank you very much. And, Tom, if you 
note anything strange or out of the way in my 
conduct in case I come in, you must try not to 
mind. I should like to—to tell you all, if I dared; 
but I really cannot—at least, not yet. Perhaps, 
the time will soon come.” 

“ But at any rate, tell me this, Wilber: is not 
your health seriously affected ? You look far from 
being a well man. You are very thin, and worn, 
and are excessively nervous.” 


FRANCIS /. FINN, S.J. 


i6 5 

“ I can’t tell—I can’t speak out,” he made 
answer in a voice that had become loud and hoarse. 
Then he caught at his throat as though he were 
choking, and resumed in a lower key: “ It is wear¬ 
ing me away. Doctors have examined me, and 
have all been obliged to give it up; and no wonder. 
But good night, Tom. Suppose we shake hands: 
you are warm now.” 

He shook my hand with almost an excess of cor¬ 
diality, and then quietly departed, leaving me to 
wonder and surmise far into the night. 

I had not long been asleep, so far as I could 
judge, when an uneasy sensation to the effect that 
something or some one was in the room, began to 
trouble my slumbers. After a few struggles, I 
succeeded in awaking sufficiently to realize that a 
man was in the room. I sat up fully awake, and 
discovered by the pale light of the moon shining 
full through my window that Wilber, his face dis¬ 
torted by terror, was beside me. 

“ Come closer, Wilber,” I said, endeavoring, 
despite an uncanny feeling, to put a note of cordial 
welcome into my voice. 

“ Oh, I am so glad that you are awake,” he whis¬ 
pered. “ Let me be near you. Let me take your 
hand. There, now, my dear friend, lie down again 
and try to go to sleep. Don’t talk. You need 
your rest. All I ask is to be near you.” 

I ventured to make a few remarks, but he begged 
me to compose myself to sleep. 

He sat beside me on the bed, meanwhile, holding 


166 MY STRANGE FRIEND . 

my hand, his large, lustrous eyes distended with 
fright. Occasionally, in a tone so low and indis¬ 
tinct that I rather apprehended than heard what he 
said, he muttered, “ On the twentieth of January, 
one that is near and dear to me will die.” 

It is needless to say that I slept little. At the 
first break of day, he stole away quietly. 

The following night witnessed a repetition of the 
same incident, whereupon I suggested to Wilber 
that he should make my room his own, a suggestion 
which he accepted with alacrity. His bed was 
removed to my room, and we were thus brought 
almost constantly together. From that time, and 
until January the nineteenth, all went well. Then 
came the twentieth of January. 

“ Tom,” he said, on that memorable night as we 
entered our room, “ may I ask a particular favor of 
you ? 

11 Certainly, Wilber; I shall be only too glad to 
do you any favor in my power.” 

“ Thank you, Tom. Please, then, stay up with 
me to-night; for I know that I shall not be able to 
sleep.” 

“ With pleasure, Wilber; but how shall we pass 
the time ? ” 

“ Tell me something about God’s mercy, Tom; 
I love to hear you speak on that topic.” 

Fortunately, just previous to my visit, I had read 
and pondered over Father Florentine Bondreaux’s 
excellent work entitled, “ God, Our Father”; and 
so I could speak with some fluency on this beautiful 


FA AN CIS J. FINN , S.J. 


167 


subject. Wilber listened to me with an interest 
which was intense, although at times strange fits of 
trembling came upon him. 

But, Wilber,” I said when one of these 
paroxysms had passed, “ do you really entertain 
any doubts of God’s mercy ? ” 

“ No, no,” he exclaimed earnestly, throwing out 
his hands with vehemence. “ Not a man living, I 
dare say, has more reason to have faith in His 
goodness than I; and the very secret which is con¬ 
suming me teaches me how very, very good He is.” 

“ But if the secret is injuring you so much, why 
not tell it to——” 

I stopped short; for an expression so unearthly 
and awe inspiring had come over his face, that it 
would be useless to attempt its description. To 
this day that expression haunts me. As it came 
upon him, he sprang from his chair, and, with bated 
breath, appeared to be listening. A moment 
passed; another and another, amidst a dead silence 
made horrible by the ticking of the great hall-clock; 
then, with a sob, he sank back upon his chair, and 
bending low his head, buried his face in his hands. 

“Dead! dead!” he groaned. 

“ Who,” I faltered, wiping my brow, for I too 
was possessed by fear. The clock sounded eleven, 
as he answered: 

“ Ah! I shall know soon enough.” 

The remaining hours of the night passed slowly; 
but from that moment Wilber became more com¬ 
posed. At the first gray dash of dawn upon the 



i68 


MY STRANGE FRIEND . 


blackness of the eastern horizon, he fell into a heavy 
sleep, and, taking advantage of this, I threw myself 
upon my bed and was soon unconscious. 

I had not slept beyond two hours, when I was 
awakened by some one pulling at my sleeve. It 
was Charlie, Wilber’s cousin, to whom I have already 
referred. His eyes were wet with tears. 

“ Hello! ” I exclaimed, “ what’s the matter, 
Charlie ? ” 

“ Papa’s dead,” said Charlie, beginning to cry 
afresh. “ He died at our house in town last night, 
and I shall never see him again.” 


II. 

Charlie’s father had been Wilber’s best beloved 
uncle. Yet the bitterness of loss fell more easily 
upon my friend than the vague presentiment of it, 
and from that time he began to rest more quietly. 
I flattered myself, therefore, that the worst was over, 
and that Wilber’s troubles had already touched their 
highest mark. 

About eleven o’clock, on the night of February 
the fourth, however, I was aroused by some one 
clutching my arm. Looking up, I saw Wilber in 
such an agony, as God grant I may never again 
witness upon the face of any human being. His 
eyes, protruding from his head, gleamed with a 
strange light, his limbs were quivering and so un¬ 
steady that he swayed from side to side, while his 
face was moist and beaded with perspiration. 


FRANCIS J. FINN, S.J. 


169 


“ Wilber, Wilber! what ails you ? ” I cried. 

“ O my God! ” he murmured. 

There was no need for me to question further. 
I saw it all now. Another warning had come, and 
together we were to face the tortures of thirty 
nights of presentiment. 

Like a drowning man he clung to my arm, and 
held it hour for hour, shivering and praying till the 
glad dawn broke. 

The days that followed were indeed gloomy. 
Wilber appeared to be unequal to this fresh trial, 
and every hour seemed to set its seal of decay upon 
him. In two weeks’ time he was hardly able to go 
about. His doctor, a man high in the profession, 
said that the case was baffling in every respect. 

But strange to say, as Wilber’s physical faculties 
grew weaker, his will and mind gathered strength. 
His gloomy fits became rarer, and he began to 
sleep quite soundly. In lieu of the weariness and 
unrest that formerly possessed his features, there 
came gradually a look of deep calm and abiding 
peace. Towards the end of February, he was 
obliged to keep to his bed. 

On March the third, he called me to his side, and 
begged to be allowed to speak to me alone. 

All left the room, and I seated myself upon his 
bed. 

“ Tom,” he began, “ you know what is going to 
happen soon. Some one near to me is going to 
die.” 

I bowed my head. 


i 7 ° 


MY STRANGE FRIEND. 


“ Do you know who it is ? ” 

“ No, Wilber.” 

“ But I do,” he answered with a certain triumph 
in his manner. “ It’s myself; and I am so happy, 
Tom, for I know who it is that will judge me.” 

He pointed to a picture of the Sacred Heart on 
the wall. 

“ That most loving Heart is the Heart of my 
judge.” 

Ah! how beautiful he looked, as his face softened 
with love and hope. 

“ I’m afraid, Wilber, that you are right. God 
is about to take you away. But I am glad, indeed 
I am, that you are in such peace.” 

“ Before I do anything else, Tom, I want to tell 
you of that awful mystery—for I feel at last that I 
can talk of it. When you become a priest of God, 
it may be of service to you. Ah, Tom, sometimes 
I think that I might have become a priest, if I 
hadn’t gone wrong. Then I’d have done some 
good, but now here I am a wreck. It’s too late. 

‘ Too late, too late, you cannot enter now.’ ” 

His voice trembled as he quoted Tennyson’s 
exquisite paraphrase. 

“You remember,” he went on, “ my conduct 
on graduation night ? Well, I carried on in that 
way, blaspheming God and his saints, but always 
careful to keep such words and sentiments from my 
relations. When mother and I returned from our 
trip East, things went on smoothly till last Christ¬ 
mas a year ago. During the holidays, all my little 


FRANCIS J. FINN , SJ. 171 

cousins and nephews and nieces—your tigers, you 
know—came here for a visit, and for a few days we 
were a merry party. Shortly after New Year’s day, 
I wanted to go to town to hear a certain lecturer 
who made fun of religion for one dollar a head. 
Somehow, my father came to hear of my purpose. 
He called me to his room, gave me a severe scold¬ 
ing, and ordered me not to leave home for a month. 
He was furious; but before he had said much—you 
know my pride, Tom—I was furious too, and there 
were high words between us. On returning to my 
room, I found a letter on my desk with news of the 
sudden death of one of m.y new friends. You know 
the kind of a friend that means, Tom, but I really 
had liked him very much. 

“ The dinner hour then found me in a most un¬ 
happy frame of mind. After some attempts to 
compose myself, I strode into the dining hall, where 
father, mother, and all those little children were 
already seated, and without looking at any one I 
threw myself into a chair. 

“ ‘ Wilber,’ said my father, ‘ you forget your 
grace.’ 

“ ‘ No, I don’t. Bah! as if there were anything 
to be thankful for.’ 

“ O Tom! you should have seen how pale and 
puzzled and frightened those little children became. 
And my dear pother! When I think of the sad 
look that came upon her sweet face, and see her 
put her trembling hand to her heart, I can hardly 
keep from weeping. And yet, brute that I was, I 


172 


MY STRANGE FRIEND. 


didn’t soften in the least; no, not even when her 
trembling hand rested upon my cheek, and her dear 
eyes filled with tears. My father could not speak. 

“ Poor mother was dazed; I could see it. She 
could not credit her ears; with an effort she mas¬ 
tered herself and spoke. 

“ 4 Come, my dear boy,’ she said in her gentlest 
tones, 1 you are not yourself. God has been ever 
good to us, there is nothing we can ask for that He 
has not given us.’ 

“ ‘ Indeed ! ’ I exclaimed in the brutality of pride, 

4 there are a good many things He doesn’t give us, 
seeing He’s such a good God.’ Tom, I should 
have stopped there, at least. For again my mother’s 
hand went to her heart, her lips quivered and all 
the happiness of her life left her face; but, God 
forgive me, I went on and added: ‘ Why, for in¬ 
stance, can’t I know beforehand when my friends 
are going to die ? ’ 

“ ‘ O Wilber! ’ and the words sounded as though 
they came from a broken heart, 1 that I should live 
to see this day,’ and my mother buried her head 
in her hands. 

“ I see it again, those little children, their inno¬ 
cent faces fixed in horror, my mother bent in grief, 
my father utterly at a loss what step to take. There 
I sat gazing haughtily upon all, when suddenly I 
sprang to my feet and would have fled, but that 
I was rooted to the spot. There was a cold, 
clammy grip upon my shoulder. I turned, but 
there was no one behind me, and still that cold, 


FRANCIS /. FINN, S.f. 


173 


chilling pressure, as of an icy hand moved slowly 
along my arm, till it caught my hand with a 
strength that I cannot describe, for it was not the 
strength of physical force, and words stop short of 
beginning to describe it. Then my hand, released 
of that awful grip, dropped powerless to my side, 
while in my ears I heard the sound as of a death- 
rattle. I gazed wildly about the room and saw 
that all were looking at me in utter consternation. 

“ I attempted to cry out, but it was impossible 
for me to utter a sound. At length the rattle 
ceased; the spell was broken, and I rushed from the 
hall, and sought refuge in my own room. For hours 
I paced up and down in the most terrible mental 
suffering; then, at random, I picked up a book, 
which chanced to be a collection of autographs, and 
opened it at these words: 

“ ‘ I shall love thee, even after the cold hand of 
death hath touched thee.’ 

“ I threw the book aside with my first sense of 
terror revived. An hour later I took up another 
book. This time it was the Bible. Perhaps you 
may guess what I read: 

“ ‘ But he that shall scandalize one of these little 
ones that believe in Me, it were better for him that 
a millstone should be hanged about his neck, and 
that he should be drowned in the depth of the 
sea. * 

“ One month from that day, another of my 
former friends died. Then I knew what that 
strange occurrence meant. God had heard my 


174 


MY STRANGE FRIEND, 


wish, to punish and correct me. Three months 
later, the same dreadful feeling—and a month later 
my mother died. Tom, I had hastened her death; 
I had broken her heart. 

“ You know the rest, Tom; but you cannot see, 
as I do, how merciful God has been to me. Oh, 
He is indeed a good God, and what seems His 
severest chastisements are often His tenderest 
mercies.” 

Late the next evening, all the little ones gathered 
about the bed of the dying man. In faltering 
accents, he told them enough of his secret to 
repair, as far as could be, the dreadful scandal; and 
the sobs of his listeners were the only interruption. 

“ Wilber, my boy,” said his father, “ as you 
yourself say, God has been indeed most merciful to 
you.” 

“ Yes, father, and I have often thought that, 
aside from my mother’s prayers, He did it to reward 
me for the one heroic act of my life. It was heroic 
for me, when, through love for Tom here and to 
humble my pride, I gave up my chance for that 
Longfellow prize.” 

A few moments later, the hand of death had lost 
its power over him forever. 


WALTER LECKY. 

Walter Lecky first made his mark not many years ago 
in the columns of the Montreal True Witness. His 
work, which was well considered, found favor with the public, 
his advancement was consequently rapid, and to-day he is 
known as one of the foremost of American Catholic writers. 

He was born April 9th, 1863, and his early days were 
passed in the town of Lawrence, Massachusetts. As 
a child he attended a private school, and afterward went 
for a time to Villanova College. At the age of eighteen 
he turned his face Westward and reached Chicago, 
where he became a “newspaper man,” doing repor- 


torial work on the Times, Herald , and Mail. A love of 
adventure took him South, where he obtained work on the 
Louisville Courier and the New Orleans Picayune. But his 
restless spirit could not remain content in one place; he 
travelled on foot to and through Mexico, and finally, having 
come into some money, started for Europe. There he had 
the pleasure of meeting many distinguished men, among 
them Cardinal Newman and Pope Leo XIII. He wit¬ 
nessed the Passion Play at Oberamergau, and stood on the 
summit of the acropolis of Athens. Finally, sated with 
adventure and with his note-books filled to overflowing, 
he returned to this country, and settled down in the moun¬ 
tain town which he has ever since made his home. It is 
there, in the heart of the Adirondacks, that he met the 
queer characters whom he has since described in his novel 
“ Mr. Billy Buttons.” 

A keen observe.r, an ardent lover of nature, Mr. Lecky 
is seen at his best in his pathetic passages and his descrip¬ 
tions of the woods and waters which are his haunts. Of 
him it may be said as it was of Thoreau.he has “ dedicated 
his genius with entire love to the fields, hills, and waters.” 

Though vigorous in his denunciation of all shams, Mr. 
Lecky is quiet and retiring in his manner and in deep sym¬ 
pathy with every form of human suffering. He is sincerely 
loved by his neighbors, for whom he constantly labors. He 
has built a hall and a library for them and has taught and 
still teaches their children. In fact, he strongly resembles 
the Pere Monnier he has so charmingly drawn. His 
published works are : “ Green Graves in Ireland,” “ Down at 
Caxtons,” and “ Mr. Billy Buttons.” 


(Mlltman 


BY WALTER LECKY. 

DRYBURGH was a small town. It had a few 
general stores, a grist-mill, a blacksmith’s shop, and 
half a hundred private residences. Its people came 
from Vermont when Dryburgh was part of the forest, 
and by much toil and labor cut down the trees and 
made the soil productive. They were thrifty and 
saving—a combination which in the many years gave 
them a bank-account, and the airs which generally 
accompany a safe deposit. Their houses from 
log-huts were gradually transformed into pleasant 
cottages, of no known style of architecture; each 
owner, having years to study his tastes, built to 
satisfy his comforts. Dryburgh had one street, 
wide and tree-lined, giving, in the most sultry 
weather, coolness and shade. A bit of garden in 
front of each house, abloom with old-fashioned 
flowers—the seed, once a parting gift, when leaving 
their old homes to found the new, from some neigh¬ 
bor, who took this kindly way of being remembered 
—gave Dryburgh an air of culture. Somehow we 
do associate culture with cleanliness, flowers, and 
well-trimmed lawns. Yet of culture in its true 
i77 


i 7 8 


GILLIMAN OGLEY. 


sense, as referring to that knowledge which comes 
from books, the people of Dryburgh had little. 
The older and pioneer men and women had no 
leisure for books; and as that taste is rarely acquired 
in later life, they contented themselves with the 
editorials of a local paper, and the spicy columns of 
a farm journal that came weekly from the great 
city. This journal gave them a bundle of ideas to 
thrash nightly in one of the village stores. It kept 
them posted on legislation, and in well-rounded 
periods and fantastic metaphors ministered to their 
good humor with an exalted idea of the dignity and 
importance of the American farmer. 

Dryburgh was a religious town with a periodical 
inclination to bigotry. Like most small towns, it 
had a sufficiency of churches. It mattered little 
that the baker’s dozen of people were not forth¬ 
coming at a Sunday service; the ministers were con¬ 
scientious, and, disdaining numbers and prizing the 
quality, hammered away for a good hour, forging 
the few to give testimony against sin. These few, 
though over-inclined to piety, were not generous; 
not even religion could command the beloved 
pocket-book. It was not surprising, then, that min¬ 
isters could not afford to be leaders in dress. They 
made the best of their circumstance by marrying 
strong, thrifty, health-keeping girls, who could 
patch neatly, knit, fix over a bonnet, and for their 
outdoor exercise have a garden worth bending over 
the inconvenience of a picket-fence to see. It was 
a ministerial saying, coined by a clever Anabaptist 


WALTER LECKY . 


179 


exhorter, that “ no minister in these parts could 
afford to have his wife run a drug bill.” It was a 
truth vouched for by the other ministers—Baptist, 
Methodist, Dutch Reformed, Lutheran, Sweden- 
borgian. Religion gave the people much of their 
social life, in the form of church parties of all 
kinds. As the revenue from a church supper is 
small, it was necessary to have them often—once a 
week at least. “ The preparation for and consum¬ 
mation of such suppers,” said the Methodist divine, 
“ was a needed relaxation.” This was the thought 
of the young, who found these suppers pleasant 
opportunities for wooing, and that without any fear 
of parental interference. Were they not under the 
watchful eye of the church—right under the noses 
of pastors whose watchfulness was proverbial; in 
full view of ancient spinsters, whose pleasantry was 
a shy at everybody’s business? At these suppers, 
frequented by the sinner and saint alike, tongues 
were free, and, to use an old-time phrase, “ rattled 
away at everything and on everybody.” Here was 
a distributing agency for news. Every one brought 
a little, gave it willingly, and in return was privi¬ 
leged to carry away the budget. It was comfort 
after a hard day’s work to sit down, especially for 
youth, by the side of a rosy girl, to a board which 
had none of your city lightness, but the solid, sub¬ 
stantial character which appeals to the sons of toil. 
Pies and puddings, it is true, were there to round off 
the tail end—the merest fringe to pork and beans, 
potatoes, and other health-making foods. And the 


i8o 


GILLIMAJST OGLEY. 


appetite—how it would wrinkle the wry faces of 
the nation’s great army of dyspeptics! At a table 
where there is no appetite, where every one stares 
at his neighbor, where the music of fork, knife, and 
spoon is lacking, even the most brilliant conversa¬ 
tion becomes dull. An air of weariness envelops 
the board, repressing all human spirits. 

These Dryburgh suppers had all the qualities of 
a festive board. Youth, love, pride, and that 
delightful though heavy-footed old country lady, 
Dame Gossip. Some have been known to sneer at 
her presence as they saw her nestling among the 
divines. Yet these were base hypocrites, who in 
their innermost heart loved the old lady and but 
danced their mouth to the music of jealousy. It is 
a human way, though man has saddled the fox to 
carry his folly, that we despise the grapes that are 
beyond our reach. Jealousy is the acid that sours 
them. 

It was at one of these suppers, held to reimburse 
for salary not forthcoming by ordinary means the 
Rev. John Powdery, the Swedenborgian—a man 
with a family not to be counted on one hand—that 
Brother Collins, the Anabaptist, whispered that a 
new gentleman had come to town. Whispering in 
Dryburgh was poorly developed. It had none of 
that artistic grace which one finds in the homes of 
the great. There whispers are dangerous if they 
shoot beyond your neighbor’s ears. A Dryburgh 
whisper was in the ordinary tones of conversation; 
yet it was conceded to be a whisper, and as such 


WALTER LECKY. 


81 


unheard. It could never be a pivot around which 
conversation might revolve. After supper, how¬ 
ever, whispers were considered public property and 
discussion of them was invited. Now the coming 
of a stranger to settle in Dryburgh, even for a few 
days, was an event to make bustle in every house¬ 
hold. Questions were to be asked and assumptions 
made; to phrase it in Dryburgh’s way, “ bearings 
were to be taken,” before anything definite could 
be said in public. Whisperings, no matter how 
fanciful, were legal; but woe betide the culprit that 
would in open speech state something that time 
would blow away. The women would brand him 
and hush their babies to sleep with the lying 
bugaboo’s name. The ministers, whose two eyes 
rested prominently on the source of their bread and 
butter, followed the ladies; and in hints that were 
as thrown brick to the offender, held up to well- 
merited detestation “ verily that abomination of 
abominations, the liar.” 

There is a Dryburgh tradition that becomes 
the property of even the passing stranger, of 
a young man who gave utterance to statements 
for the fun of making them. In a quiet way 
one Sabbath the Rev. Floyd Jenkins, then 
holding the Baptist living, read the story of Aman 
and Mardochai to his flock, which happened 
that day—possibly owing to a Saturday night 
hint—to crowd his church. With that story, by 
twists here and there, aided by his powerful ima¬ 
gination and the copious flow of words that, as a 


182 


GILLIMAN OGLEY. 


brother said, “ dripped from his mouth like water 
from a soaked sponge,” the Rev. Mr. Jenkins (here 
I prefer to quote from a letter of the time written 
by a lady well known for her gospel work) “ made 
his flock see the road liars were on—a road of per¬ 
dition owned by Satan, and kept in good repair by 
his wily majesty for their comfort. On it he 
showed Cain, Judas, and Jesuits—a nice crowd for 
any young man to be in. We were all in tears. 
The Rev. Mr. Jenkins’ speech was just grand, life- 
full, soul-stirring. Just think what effect was 
in these words; ‘ To walk in truth is to be what 
one seems; to scorn counterfeits, shun shams, or 
the pathway hung about with shows and shadows 
and pageants.’ I was doubled over in my pew 
with expectancy. I was braced up, I trust, for 
many a day, by the next sentence—which was fairly 
boiling: 1 Truth lodged in the soul is like leaven 
placed in the loaf: it works, it permeates, vitalizes, 
revolutionizes.’ The young man for whose benefit 
the masterpiece was done never repented. He had 
lived in the cities for a while, and laughed at his 
neighbors for making such a fuss over a joke. He 
even went further—by wooing and marrying the min¬ 
ister’s daughter, presenting, as he laughingly said, 
the other cheek. Then he went West, and many 
who condemned him in the days of his youth, in 
later years hearing of his success, speak of him now 
with generous words. The sermon had, however, 
a lasting effect. I might sum it up by saying 
that it confirmed whispering on all topics, but 


WALTER LECKY . 183 

silenced open speech unless proofs were given in 
support. ” 

The whisper of Brother Collins made the villagers 
alert and watchful of the new-comer. Had he 
money, or was he a poor man ? If the latter, said 
the nightly gossipers of the village store, what in 
thunder brings him here ? We have more poor than 
we need. There was a suggestion that he was a 
business man, which enraged the proprietor, who 
held a monopoly of the town’s industry. His rage 
flew into such phrases as, “None but an idiot would 
come here to start in business;” “ those who are 
in are there to their sorrow, and would like to sell 
out to-morrow at a loss. ” Weeks went and the 
stranger added anxiety to every household by not 
divulging his plans, and by keeping within doors; 
giving no chance to be cross-examined by the few 
village fathers grown gray, who held as a sacred 
right their authority to ask any question under the 
guise of interest in those questioned. 

One of the relics of Dryburgh’s better days is a 
rambling brick ruin, used by the children as a place 
for their hide-and-go-seek games. Old men point 
to it and tell of the “ circulating money,” and “ the 
work for all,” when this ruin as a glass factory was 
in “ full blast.” Near the ruin is a red wooden 
structure, once the office of the glass company, but, 
following the fate of its brick neighbor, shaky and 
lonely-looking. Once a bright red, the storms in 
the years when it was in nobody’s thought peeled 
off the paint and left a dusky rotten hue. Had it 


8 4 


GILLIMAN OGLEY. 


fallen at any time, it would not have caused the 
slightest talk. Its downfall was expected, and in 
heavy winds the prophets had always a subject for 
disaster. Judge, then, of Dryburgh’s surprise when 
Simon Butler, the justice, announced that the ruin 
was about to be rented by the stranger, whose 
name—and he pulled out a large wallet from an 
inside pocket crowded with papers, selected one 
and adjusting his eye-glass proceeded—“ was, as 
the paper that I hold in my hand shows, Gilliman 
Ogley.” 

The justice’s information aroused inquisitiveness 
—a country gift. 

(i What does he intend to do with it ? ” asked 
half a dozen. “ It’s of no earthly use, Mr. 
Butler,” said Dr. Cronker, whose wisdom was 
appreciated. “ Prop it as you will, it’s bound to 
go; it cannot last a great while. Queer things 
never cease. I have two good houses to let and 
cannot get a tenant; yet here is an old affair 
that I wouldn’t house hogs in—wouldn’t take if it 
was made a present to me—rented! I am a man 
that don’t say much—in fact, I’m the last to accuse 
any man—but, between us, that old barn of a thing 
was never rented for any good purpose.” 

There was a sense of wisdom in the listening faces 
—if, as some people think, a mingling of sourness 
and seriousness be the sign — and a shaking of 
heads, that told the doctor he threw their thoughts 
into words. The justice, little in size, corpulent 
and stately, dignified by nature and adding to it the 


WALTER LECKY. 


185 


dignity of his office—an important one in Dryburgh 
—gave his auditors a slight wink, cleared his throat 
with a cough that was acknowledged by even his 
enemies as original, and said he was now in a frame 
of mind “ to warn all whom it concerns that the 
machinery of the law in this town is in most excel¬ 
lent form,” and that “ any man, or men, who 
imagines this is a slow town, where you can do any¬ 
thing you want, without a tumbling thereto by the 
aforesaid machinery of the law, put himself ipsi facti 
in its coils, where, like a bird tangled in a thread, the 
more he tried to get out the more he was caught.” 

The homely simile provoked a burst of laughter 
from the listeners, and increased their pride in the 
shrewdness and watchfulness of Justice Butler. 

“ Well, boys,” said Dr. Cronker, “ mind, I said 
nothing about the stranger—he might be an acquisi¬ 
tion to our town; but his renting such a building 
seems so queer that I cannot get it out of my head; 
it’s either for something strange or it’s a foolish 
move.” 

“ I have nothing to say,” said the justice, 
‘ ‘absolutely nothing. Justice requires a tight mouth. 
All I know is, that Mr. Ogley has leased the office 
for the space of five years. On business matters I 
found him very close. My experience I offered to 
him—an experience of thirty years, meeting and 
treating with all classes of people. He thanked me, 
and said that he was a poor man and was about to 
do business in a poor way, to knock a living out of 
it; that’s all. But I must tell you, boys, I was 


i86 


GILLIMAN OGLEY. 


honest. I told him to save my soul I didn’t know 
a business that was not overdone in town. It was 
then that Mr. Ogley said, ‘ Would a marble-yard on 
a small scale pay ? ’ I nearly burst out in his face. 
It took all my legal training to suppress myself. 

‘ Why, dear Mr. Ogley,’ said I, 1 we die up here 
so slow that one monument in a generation is about 
as much as we put up, and then we have to see that 
it wears well before we make up our minds to pay 
for it.’ ” 

“ I wonder,” said Dr. Cronker, 11 has he paid his 
rent in advance. This business of trusting strangers 
who have seemingly nothing is not to my taste. 
He may be honest, but I fail to see what is made 
by putting honesty to a test.” 

“ Speak of the devil and he’ll put in an appear¬ 
ance,” said one of the listeners. 

“ Right you are, my boy,” said Justice Butler; 
“ here comes the gentleman himself.” 

“ It’s not every day you see a stone-cutter so 
dressy/’ remarked Dr. Cronker; 11 he looks more 
like one of the profession.” 

“ Many a one afore you, doctor, that banked on 
looks lost; and many a one coming behind you, 
untaught by experience, will lose both capital and 
interest,” said a red-bearded farmer, stroking his 
under-chin growth of hair, and watching with his 
cold steel-gray eyes the effect of his philosophy 
on the Solon of the law. He was repaid when 
Mr. Butler tapped him on the forehead, saying, 
“ Klinker will do: he’s all right.” 


WALTER LECKY. 


187 

All eyes were turned in the direction of the 
stranger, who was accompanied by a merry-eyed, 
talkative girl of thirteen, who was continually chang¬ 
ing from side to side, catching his hands and tug¬ 
ging at them with well-shown delight. 

He was a man of middle age, wiry in build, with 
a military carriage. His features were pleasantly 
cut. When the hat was removed, the bristling 
black hair gave to the whole head a shapeliness 
which was agreeable, and an impression that the 
owner was, or should be, a lucky fellow. Faces 
throw impressions which are liable to toning down, 
or even radical change, as the years go by and con¬ 
tact and experience are ours. 

The hands were white and small—an argument 
which might have been used with effect against Dr. 
Cronker’s gratuitous assertion. The dress—and on 
that article Dryburgh holds an old opinion (you 
may hear it any night that you wish to bring up 
this subject in the village store)—dress makes a 
man, and the want of it a fellow; and between these 
words there is a distinction which, to borrow from 
Brother Powdery’s great sermon on the ways of 
“ Mr. Satan,” is both special and profound. Gilli- 
man Ogley had a good figure; the ladies admitted 
that, and to such authorities I respectfully bow. 
Nature has given their eye a quickening in this art 
that men, no matter how artful, can never possess. 
Dress would have set him out in a winning way, 
but it must be chronicled of him that he was indif¬ 
ferent to his shape’s draping—careless of his clothes. 


188 


GILLIMAN OGLEV. 


He will never know the peace of mind this little 
failing procured him during his sojourn in Dryburgh. 
The girl—(I am well aware that in the use of this 
word I am departing from the well-established 
phraseology of Dryburgh, which insists that from 
the tenth to the fortieth year of female life the term 
lady is only proper, and on sober thought I think 
it is best to comply with my townspeople’s rule, so— 
the young lady)—was dressed in plain black, with 
white cuffs and collar, simply, but so tastefully 
that admiration dwelt in the mouths of the critical. 
Comparisons were made; things dissimilar suggest 
ideas; and be it said of Dryburgh that no idea went 
naked. If the critics would permit me an adjective, 
I would write of corpulent ideas as being native to 
the Dryburgh soil. Gilliman Ogley’s clothes were 
neither torn nor patchy, but they were pitch-forked 
on, and that in a hurry. Miss Ogley’s —for that 
was the name of his daughter and companion—were 
draped at leisure, the mirror advising; and all with 
an eye to a graceful ultimate effect. 

As Mr. Ogley approached the impatient-eyed 
crowd, his dress brought forth a comment that 
“ he looked in his clothes like fury,” a strong term 
in these parts. 

“ He’s not badly built,” said Dr. Cronker, “ but 
work has thrown him to the one side too much.” 

This opinion was held in common, as was shown 
by the audible grunt that welcomed it. 

“ He is about to join the crowd,” said Mr. Butler, 
becoming so grave that a small boy who makes his 


WA L TER LECKY . 


mouth express his eye would call such gravity 
grinning. 

Perhaps there’s some hitch in the lease; looks 
like it; it’s the justice he’s looking for. The only 
mill, justice, that everybody brings corn to is 
yours.” 

There was a loud laugh, for Dr. Cronker was 
called witty; and in the country, when a wit says 
something, you are supposed to see a joke and 
recognize the same by quick appreciative laughter. 

“ Just taking your afternoon stroll, Mr. Ogley ? 
The air is salubrious; full of this ozone; beats any¬ 
thing where it comes from; our country’s full of it. 
And the young lady ”—the justice removed his 
hat, dexterously showing his flat, close-cropped 
skull—“ it will bring to her cheeks the color of a 
June rose; she will need no saspirillas or other con¬ 
coctions to make blood. In a year she will be full 
of it. The doctor there can tell you a bit, if he 
wishes; if he didn’t keep the drug store and make 
an odd ‘ spec ’ on horses, he might starve. I have 
a joke on the doctor; I say, it is only for style 
that our folks buy drugs. I have been here a long 
while, but the only medicine I bought was a pack¬ 
age of salts, and I believe my wife could hunt you 
up a dose yet.” 

Miss Ogley laughed that sweetest of all music, a 
young girl’s blithe, hearty, untrammelled laugh. 
It swept away every prejudice and won the justice’s 
heart, who took it as a compliment to his wit. 
What comfort there is in delusion! He is a sorry 


190 


GILLIMAN OGLEY. 


fellow who considers it his duty to go up and down 
the world disillusionizing his fellows.* It was an 
inspired moment when the poet sang that if igno¬ 
rance is bliss it is folly to be wise. Yet the snarlers, 
under the pretext of teaching wisdom, are ever 
destroying our bliss. To them a miry frog-pole is 
dearer far than the loveliest visions. Sticklers for 
the real, let them shout in the crossways; the 
majority of men will pass them by, travel, despite 
their warning, in dream-land—suffer, if you will, but 
paid a thousandfold for that suffering by the remem¬ 
brance of those travel years. 

Miss Ogley laughed and Justice Butler kept his 
delusion. That he died with it should be recorded, 
for in after years it was his boast that Florence 
Ogley’s laugh was worth a dozen of his jokes; and 
when it is known that the justice was in the habit 
for years of giving but one, and that during the 
festivities of the Fourth of July, the worth of the 
compliment comes to view. 

“ How do you like Dryburgh,” asked Dr. Cron- 
ker, waiving all introduction. “ I presume you 
are Mr. Ogley. We are a plain people, without 
airs and frills, clap a stranger on the back at first 
sight, and do our own introducing.” 

“ Glad to meet you, gentlemen,” replied Mr. 
Ogley, “ and especially you, doctor, who I under¬ 
stand have a house to let. It happens to be just 
the thing* Florence and I need—very pretty and 
comfortable. I am willing to pay a fair price and 
would like to move into it at once.” 


WALTER LECKY. 


191 

Dr. Cronker was radiant in smiles, and full of 
apologies for his inability to let the cottage, “ as so 
many people had spoken to him for it, who were 
old friends of many years.” 

“ Well, doctor,” said Mr. Ogley looking into his 
eyes, “ what rent do you consider it worth ? or 
better, what do you get for such cottages ? Do not 
answer me if my question is in any way annoying. 
I am from the city, and have no just idea of village 
rentals.” 

“ Well, a cottage like mine—use of the barn, 
garden, orchard—is cheap at fifteen dollars a month; 
saw the time when it was worth more, but times 
are hard and money tight.” 

“ Doctor, I will give you sixteen dollars a 
month, and pay a year in advance, paying for any 
damage that you may declare during my occu¬ 
pancy.” 

The crowd winked to one another, some of them 
nipped their fellows. Dr. Cronker gave a delicate 
cough. 

“ Well, reallv, it is hard to go back on old friends; 
but, seeing you are a stranger and a business man 
at that, I will take on my shoulders all blame, and 
as soon as you deposit the money with the justice, 
you can have the key. Of course, the garden being 
set will be extra, and I claim the orchard this year.” 

“ Very well, doctor; we will not dispute over 
these matters.” 

Gilliman Ogley went down the village street. As 
he turned into a lane which led to the lake, he 


192 


GILLIMAN OGLEY. 


remarked to Florence, who was full of wonder at 
the queer people of Dryburgh, “ My dear Florence, 
money hath power, and selfishness and greed are 
everywhere—in town and country.” 

“ Yes, papa, but I think a little more in the 
country. 

“ That, Florence, I do not know; in the city we 
hide it with putty and polish.” 

As Mr. Ogley and his daughter disappeared, the 
crowd took up the discussion, joined by Brother 
Collins, who always valued an audience. 

“ A queer man,” remarked the sandy-bearded 
man, whose first hit made him prone, following the 
ways of human nature, to serve more from his dish. 

“ Not a bit of it,” replied Dr. Cronker. “ Not 
a bit of it! A business man with a city way of 
doing business! Catch anybody in the city going 
to rent a house and trusting to trust to pay the rent. 
We are away behind in this—away behind. See 
how quick we struck a bargain in a few minutes. 
It would take a week up here. Mr. Ogley saw that 
I was a business man and came to the point at once. 
In fact, my impression of him is that he has seen 
better days. I rather like to think of him as a con¬ 
tractor than as an ordinary mechanic. Adversity 
is to be pitied—but a man who meets it like Mr. 
Ogley deserves to be upheld. I am sure that is 
your thought, Brother Collins. ” 

Brother Collins had that morning called on the 
Ogleys, to see, as was his wont, if they were of his 
flock. He was in a position to gossip. 


WALTER LECKY. 


193 


“ Well, doctor, it is very hard to know anything 
about that Ogley family. I questioned the young 
lady; then her father; but all I could get out of 
them was: ‘ You are very kind, Mr Collins, we 
assure you of our thankfulness; but we do not 
belong to your church.’ Well, then I named him 
every church in town; he thanked me for my 
offices in his behalf, but accepted nothing. I fear 
he’s one of those agnostics, and if so I pity the 
formative education of the young lady.” 

Brother Collins heaved a deep gurgling sigh. 

“ Humph,” said Dr. Cronker, “ it’s nobody’s 
business what he is, so long as he pays his debts and 
behaves. How many men are there in this town 
that bother with church? When they send their 
women, they think that’s enough.” 

“ Precisely,” said Justice Butler. “You speak 
from a full hand. There are some of us, with all 
due reverence to this company, who think this 
visiting and offering religion is out of place.” 

“ I am one of those,” said Dr. Cronker, whose 
wife was leading-string in Brother Collins’s church. 

The divine twittered a little laugh, and with a bow 
went off, followed by the separating crowd, firm in 
their belief that no divine had a chance when con¬ 
fronted by Cronker and Butler. 

In country towns men carry the news to their 
wives. This gives women the privilege, when visit¬ 
ing each other, of having something to feed on. 

Said Mrs. Cronker to Mrs. Butler, over a mug 
of tea: “ These Ogleys, I’m told, have no more 


194 


GILL/MAN OGLEY, 


religion than the doctor’s St. Bernard. Preserve 
me from city folk. We think our husbands are 
careless, but, my dear, there is no comparison— 
none whatever. The justice and the doctor will 
own up to some belief now and then, but these folk 
to nothing. Just think of poor Brother Collins, 
with all his kindness—and you know how lovely he 
is—not being able to fathom these Ogleys! Such 
people! I told Mr. Collins that they looked like 
spiritualists. You know Mrs. Bixbee calls herself 
a medium, and has her seances every Sunday night. 
I am sure as my name is Mrs. Doctor Cronker, that 
the Ogleys will be in that set.” 

“ I don’t care,” responded Mrs. Butler, “ for 
Ogley himself; he’s just horrid; not to my taste. 
And did ever you hear such a name in your life 
as Gilliman ? But the young lady just took the 
justice’s eye. She’s just awful sweet. I wonder 
who makes her clothes, they sit so well. Don’t you 
think they become her ? I would like to have a 
pattern of that waist for my Jenny. I think it is 
awfully cute. The justice is going to invite her 
down to the house to meet Jen.” 

“ I would put down my foot,” said Mrs. Cronker, 
“ on any such invitation, until I knew what were 
the religious principles of the child. I like this 
child—rather I pity her—but we must remember 
the Rev. Mr. Powdery’s advice ‘ not to bind the 
tare with the wheat.’ Our children know nothing 
of the world; little darlings of heaven, straying as 
Brother Collins put it on Children’s Day, ‘ far from 


WALTER LECKY. 


*95 


the battle-ground of care, in the land of bliss by 
the pathway of peace.’ ” 

Mrs. Cronker wept; and Mrs. Butler, good old 
soul! joined her friend with a pitiful sob. 

“ Let us talk of something else,” said Mrs. 
Cronker, rubbing her eyes with her fringed handker¬ 
chief; lt time will show.” 

Here Mrs. Butler broke in with “ Yes, time will 
show. Next Sunday all the eyes in the village will 
be on them. If they go anywhere it will be 
known.” 

Sunday came, slowly for the folks of Dryburgh. 
It was noted that sinners that day went to church. 
“ It was curiosity, not the Word, they were after,” 
was a woman’s remark. I thought it cruel, but as 
I am a mere chronicler, in conscience I am bound 
to record it. 

The Dryburgh school is pleasantly situated at the 
end of the town, in a shady maple grove, much used 
in summer-time for church picnics. It is very 
plainly built, and whether or not it was painted I 
am unable to state. Its present color is a dirty 
gray, making me, even at the risk of contradiction, 
hazard the guess that the only painting it ever had 
was with the winds as brush and the rain as paint. 
A few Irish farmers, heavily mortgaged with their 
wives and wagon-load of chattering, fun-making 
young Celts, came here for service once a month. 
They were unable to build a church, so the use of 
the school-house was allowed to this “ handful of 
Romanists,” as they were called, on condition that 


196 


GILLIMAN OGLEY . 


they would give “ annually a few loads of dry wood 
for heating the school.” It was Justice Butler who, 
against all opposition, procured them this privilege. 
He had been in the same army corps with these 
Celtic Catholic farmers, and was carried away by 
their fighting qualities. He knew they were honest 
and brave men, struggling against many hardships, 
working early and late to clear the mortgage, “ and 
if their religion was any consolation to them, 
they were going to have it, even if he rigged up his 
barn.” They on their part had always a vote for 
their old comrade, and any law-business they had 
was thrown in his way. These farmers came early, 
loitered around, the men smoking and chatting, 
the women busied in making tidy the school-room, 
the children romping around, now and then resting 
to take a peep at their catechism. 

There was a lull as a gentleman and a lady ap¬ 
proached and asked “ if this was the place were 
Catholic service was held.” 

A large woman, holding a baby in her arms, 
fluttered around for a few minutes, then called a 
little urchin, who came suspiciously, and told him 
“ to find Myles McCaffrey for the gentleman and 
missis.” Myles was, as she stumblingly said, “ the 
man who knows all about the church after the priest 
himself.” 

Myles came trotting, pleasant-faced and smiling, 
with information bubbling on the tip of his tongue. 

“ My name, sir, is Myles McCaffrey. I come 
here awhile always before the rest. Just to do odd 


IVALTER LECKY. 


197 


turns around, before his reverence comes. I light 
fires when needed and fix the teacher’s seat. Then 
the ladies, yer honor, make it into a snug altar.” 

“ Well, Mr. McCaffrey,” said Mr. Ogley, “ if you 
show us seats we will be thankful; and my daughter 
Florence, you must know, Myles, will help the 
ladies to trim the altar.” 

“ Bless her heart!” said the flattering Celt, 
“ she’s the best flower of them all.” 

The ringing of a little bell drew the worshippers 
within; and the priest, stately and grave, began 
the service. 

A middle-aged lady thrummed indifferently Leon¬ 
ard’s Mass. Note after note came, hurriedly, as if 
frightened; a few young uncertain voices kept the 
music company. 

As soon as the service was over, the priest un¬ 
robed and came to where the strangers sat, hoping 
with fatherly care that they were properly attended 
to by Myles, as they happened to be seated before 
he noticed them. He invited them to come again. 

“ Certainly,” said Mr. Ogley, “ every time you 
hold service; and my daughter insists that you 
breakfast with us to-day—for that matter, that you 
stop with us while in the village. We are not rich, 
but I have no apology to make to a man of sacri¬ 
fice.” 

“ Yes, you must come,” put in Miss Ogley; 
“ we are the least of your flock, and that should be 
reason enough for your coming. ” 

“ But,” said Father Denham, “ I teach a village 


198 


GILLIMAN OGLEY. 


lad Italian, and I generally breakfast with him; and 
as soon as the breakfast and lesson are over, I drive 
home; quite a drive—in the neighborhood of 
twenty miles.” 

“My! that is too much,” said Mr. Ogley. 
“ Bring the lad along. I have a few Italian books, 
and we will see, Father, if Florence is not your 
match in that tongue. If you come, I think you 
might get her to play the organ and train your 
choir. It is a little bit jerky—want of practice, 
I dare say. See now what attractions I hold 
out.” 

“ I must submit, I suppose, and breakfast at 
your home,” was the priest’s response. “ Just as 
soon as I settle a few matters with Myles, who 
is my merry man of all things, I will be with you.” 

On the way home Mr. Ogley said: “Florence, 
my dear, I have broken my resolution not to have 
any visitors save the priest, but it is a lad and it 
will be an easy matter to get rid of him.” 

“Oh! papa, if the priest brings him—and 
especially such a sedate priest—he must be bright 
and studious. The people here are so dull that a 
few lights should be a cause for thankfulness.” 

“Well, Florence, let us see him first. To find 
him studying Italian is a feather in his cap. See 
what you can do from our little store to make the 
priest’s breakfast appetizing. There can be no 
doubt of his being educated in Rome. I knew 
that by his way of pronouncing Latin. Little 
housekeeper, make him think of your birthland. 


WALTER LECKY. 


*99 


Don’t, I pray you, child, laugh if the lad murders 
the beautiful Italian. Everybody creeps.” 

The Ogleys were in front of their cottage. On 
Monday morning every passing villager had time to 
give a few moments to the old glass office. It 
bore on its front, in white-lead letters: 

“ Monuments Of Every Description Made to Order. 

Gilliman Ogley.” 

Before the door stood a few marble blocks and 
a small monument crowned with a dove. 

That Gilliman Ogley had gone to the “ Romanist 
handful over at the school,” sealed his fate. 

The Dryburghers arose steady in purpose not to 
talk about anything save the strange religious belief 
of the Ogleys, a belief which meant social ostracism, 
at least from the women—and when they club 
against you, sociability is sparse; but seeing the 
sign and the monument and marble blocks, their 
astonishment took the form of a few day’s dumb¬ 
ness; then tongues angrily wagged, assumptions 
were made, imagination let loose, charity and 
religion forgotten. This abated when a new minis¬ 
ter took Mr. Powdery’s place; then a change of 
subject was forthcoming—the new minister and his 
wife had to be passed upon. 

Gilliman Ogley cared little about the village talk. 
Every morning he entered the old office, locked the 
door behind him, did something—what it was no 
one knew—and left every evening. No order for 
monuments came his way, and he sought none; so 


GILLIMAN OGLEY. 


200 

the curious spectacle—curious to village folk—of a 
man living on nothing was one of the things of 
Dryburgh. Two callers came to his house; one the 
priest, when his duty brought him to the village; 
the other the lad he had introduced—a dreamy boy, 
full of talent and visions, laughed at by the village 
fathers, as most dreamers are, but somehow or other 
winning the friendship of the tongue-tied Gilliman 
and the confidence of Miss Florence. 

He was an orphan boy, brought up by his grand¬ 
mother, and this might have softened Gilliman 
Ogley’s heart to him; or was it his name—Leigh 
Hunt Watkins—which appealed to one who loved 
the exquisite essays of the genial Cockney poet? 

Be it whatever it was, young Watkins was a con¬ 
stant visitor at Mr. Ogley’s cottage, and for this 
indiscretion had weekly homilies from his prophetic 
grandmother and unconcealed hostility from his 
neighbors. 

Here it must be written that such persecution 
was taken in the spirit of Job. Youth and, I was 
going to write, love—although I lean only on sus¬ 
picion—build palaces with the stones tormentors 
throw. To read Italian on the little cottage 
veranda under the careful guidance of Gilliman 
Ogley, to be mimicked by Florence, and to pay 
back sarcasm by culling her flowers; to listen to the 
Italian stories of Leigh Hunt or the mystic artist 
verse of Rosetti, was the height of boyish bliss, the 
dreamer’s paradise. The dreary town and its dull 
people were effaced; and in gayly decked barque 


WALTER LECKY. 


201 


Leigh Hunt Watkins, like his namesake, sailed for 
the Hesperides. 

What a blessed thing are the friends whose voices 
can waft us from dullard surroundings to the isles 
of the West! 

With the death of the grandmother, Leigh Hunt 
Watkins bade Dryburgh a sorrowful farewell. A 
mercantile career in the great city was opened for 
him by rich relatives; and the dreamer from a coun¬ 
try town with his head full of flowers, birds, and 
songs, and love romping through his blood making 
that glorious insanity which poetry has partly 
caught, went forth to join the ranks of the earners, 
to strive in the battle of life, to company with ugly 
realisms, and daily to walk on the ruins of his 
ideals. 

Mr. Ogley had wished him well. Florence had 
allowed him to steal from her neck a little silver 
cross. 

“ A man that will be heard from some day,” said 
Mr. Ogley the evening of his departure; “ the most 
charming youth I have known; full of talent, but 
completely unsuited for a mercantile career. Poor 
fellow! you might as well try to cage a humming¬ 
bird. Like his namesake, he was born to live 
among books and flowers.” 

“ Yes, papa, and how lonesome it will be here 
now! I only wished we lived in New York. Oh, 
dear me! what a dreadful place this is! Such horrid 
people! ” 

“ But, Florence,” and Mr. Ogley laughed, “you 


202 


GILLIMAN OGLEY. 


must remember that you have lived here a few years 
seemingly content, and this sudden fit is rather diffi¬ 
cult to explain ; but if fortune favors us—and she has 
long kept away—we may live in New York some 
day. I also am a little weary of all this loneliness, 
and long for some one who would partake of my 
thoughts. No, Florence; I cannot blame you. 
Life only comes once, and to potter it out in Dry- 
burgh would be sad waste. I trust he promised to 
write a letter now and then; it would be pleasant; 
you have time enough to answer.” 

“ The Lord is merciful if we only wait long 
enough,” said Mrs. Cronker; “ young Watkins has 
gone to the city away from those Ogleys. The 
prayers of Brother Collins for that young man have 
not been offered in vain. Will he be saved, I wonder? 
These Ogleys have primed him well. It’s my 
opinion they have made him a Jesuit. Just think 
of the grandson of Dan Watkins writing poems about 
the Madonna and telling Justice Butler that it be a 
Catholic priest that writ the hymn I’m so fond of 
—the one I sung at Moore’s funeral. ‘ Yes,’ says 
he, ‘ “ Lead, kindly Light ” was so composed.’ I 
trust he’ll fall into good hands, but poison once ii. 
the vitals is hard to physic out. I wonder who’s 
next on the list for contamination.” 

So runs the world, interesting from its diversity 
of opinions. We are saddled with motives, then 
accordingly judged. It is the old censure of the 
poet: man’s inhumanity to man. 

Dryburgh soon banished Leigh Hunt Watkins 


WALTER LECKY. 


203 


from its ordinary conversation; he was only dis¬ 
cussed when some memory recalled his name; and 
thus the years wore on. The Ogleys made no new 
friends. Dr. Cronker was delighted in having a 
model tenant; the townspeople had given up guess¬ 
ing how the Ogleys lived; the fountain that had 
supplied gossip so long was dry. 

Gilliman Ogley loved to sit on the little porch in 
the warm evenings, and read his paper, or watch 
his daughter busying herself among the flowers, 
giving a cool drink to a drooping fellow, pruning the 
ambitious, staying the weaklings. The paper lay 
on an easy-chair ready to be read. One evening, 
missing what had become a necessity, he called his 
daughter, who approached him with a bundle of 
manuscripts. 

“ I have something better than your old paper, 
papa. Leigh has written a novel and had it ac¬ 
cepted by a big publishing house. It is full of fun. 
I have been reading and laughing all the afternoon. 
I know the most of the characters. We can never 
forget Dryburgh as long as we have Leigh’s novel. 
I see the Butlers, Cronkers, Collins, all that set, 
strutting up and down the pages. If everybody 
likes it as well as I do, it will make Leigh famous. 
Just read Chapter III, where Justice Butler holds 
court. How funny! Perhaps I had better read it, 
as you look a trifle tired.” 

“ Yes, Florence, read. I am weary, weary of 
Dryburgh; but I see no chance of leaving it yet.” 

She read, throwing her whole soul into the read- 


204 


GILLIMAN OGLEY. 


ing, flashing out the fun with her laughing blue 
eyes. 

As she read the weariness fled from her father’s 
face, and a rippling laughter that she had not seen 
for years took its place. When the chapter was 
finished she looked towards him and listened. 

“ Florence, this is capital. By Jove, if I know 
anything this book will make Leigh famous! I knew 
he was clever, but I never looked to him to give 
us such a humorous book. I would like to take it 
to the shop and make a few drawings. I am on 
the spot, which means much. Leigh you could ask 
to show them to his publishers. All they can do 
in the matter would be to reject them, and that 
kind of thing will not hurt me. I am used to 
it,” and a cynical shadow stole over Mr. Ogley’s 
face. 

“ Oh! I wish you would, papa. Just think of a 
book by Leigh, and illustrated by you! ” 

“Foolish Florence! You rear a dream; the 
illustrations may not be needed.” 

It might have been a dream, but from that 
moment Florence Ogley saw it as a reality. She 
wrote to Leigh of her father’s intention, and he pro¬ 
cured time and a promise from the publishers to 
look over “ Mr. Ogley’s illustrations.” 

“ Everything comes to the patient, Florence,” 
said Mr. Ogley, opening the little wicket gate that 
led to his house. “ The illustrations are done, 
and sent off in your name. Nothing venture, 
nothing win. If they are worthless-” 



W A El< LE CK Y. 205 

“ Why talk that way ? You know that they will 
be as good as the text.” 

“ Well, my daughter, it is right, I suppose, for 
you to hold an exalted opinion of your father—it 
enables him to bear the world’s contrary verdict.” 

A few weeks came and went—weeks of longing 
on the part of Florence Ogley; weeks of hope and 
prayer for her father. At length the long-awaited 
letter came. It was noted in Dryburgh that on 
this day Miss Ogley actually ran from the post- 
office to her house, and throwing herself under the 
shade of a maple, opened the precious packet. 
How her heart beat! How the words went gallop¬ 
ing! “ The illustrations were accepted; the pub¬ 
lishers declared they would sell any book.” Mr. 
Ogley must come to New York, as the firm needed 
more of his work. And for all the Ogleys’ kindness 
the book was to be dedicated to Florence, as a 
small token of Leigh’s affection. 

Leigh would return with Mr. Ogley and take a 
well-earned rest. 

She rested her head against the trunk of the tree, 
happiness came to her dreams; beautiful dreams 
romped through her head. Dreams invited sleep, 
and that fairy princess came. 

Mr. Ogley, returning home, found his daughter 
fast asleep with a crumpled letter held to her breast. 
Gently he took it and read. Tears ran down his 
cheeks. ‘ ‘ If my wife were only alive, ” he muttered, 
“only alive! Perhaps people now may buy my 
pictures. All I wanted was to get a start—to get 


20 6 


GILLIMAN OGLEY. 


away from Dryburgh and exile, far from dulness 
and bigotry. To live in the city once more is not 
a dream, but a reality, Gilliman Ogley.” 

Florence awoke: the father and daughter, eyes 
telling a tale, embraced. 

“ What is that you’re killing yourself laughing 
at ?” said Justice Butler to Dr. Cronker. 

“ The funniest book that was ever penned—a 
book got up by young Watkins, and Ogley, who 
rented my place. Ogley has become a great man. 
Guess what he was doing in the glass office while 
we were laughing outside—painting pictures. They 
were sold the other day at auction; brought prices 
you and I couldn’t touch. I wanted to know more 
of that man, but I was led the other way by my wife. 
Men are foolish to be led by the noses, the women 
element holding the string. My wife was always 
prophesying about these folk, and that Leigh was 
not going there for nothing, and something bad 
would happen some day. Leigh was not going 
there for nothing; that bit of her talk is correct, 
I reckon, if the dedication to Mrs. Florence Ogley 
Watkins means anything, and I’m betting it 
does.” 

“ Doctor,” said the justice, removing his hat and 
scratching his head long and crosswise, “ this is a 
slow town: the people know nothing. Just think 
of the way they treated that great man. I wouldn’t 
wonder but that that Watkins boy, if he’s clever 
enough to write books, might turn the laugh by 


WALTER LECKY. 


207 


composing one on Dryburgh, and get Ogley to pict¬ 
ure it.” 

‘‘ Serve them right. Just what would wake them 
up, and this book tells me that young Watkins can 
do it thoroughly.” 

“ Let me have a read at it as soon as you get 
through, doctor,” and Justice Butler went down 
the street to his office. 

Dr. Cronker put under his arm Burghdry, a 
novel, by Leigh Hunt Watkins, illustrated by 
Gilliman Ogley, and dedicated to Mrs. Florence 
Ogley Watkins, and strolled off into the shade of a 
maple to laugh at the music of ‘a fellow-townsman. 




























. 




' 














CHRISTIAN REID. 


Mrs Frances C. Tiernan, whose books are published 
over the name of “Christian Reid,” was born at Salis¬ 
bury, North Carolina, where her people have lived from the 
first settlement of the country. Her father, Colonel Charles 
F. Fisher, was killed on July 21st, 1861, in the battle of 
Manassas, while in command of his regiment of North 
Carolina State Troops. His daughter was devoted to him. 
and his death greatly saddened her life. All attempts to 
lure her into society proved futile, for she neither asked any 
one to call on her nor accepted the invitations to visit which 
her neighbors sent. For years after, she lived a lonely 
life, with a maiden aunt as her only companion, in 
the Fisher homestead, an old fashioned brownish-gray 












house, with large columns in front, which stands in a 
grove of grand old oaks and cedars. During the summer 
she sometimes visited Ashville, but most of her time, when 
not writing, was passed in walking or driving about the beau¬ 
tiful mountain region. A zealous Catholic, Miss Fisher 
gave up part of the lot on which her old home stands and 
built a church upon it. 

Miss Fisher began to write when she was very young, 
and the success of her first novel,“ Valerie Aylmer,” which 
appeared in 1870, spared her the difficulties which beset 
most authors in their early efforts. Thereafter she wrote 
constantly for several years, publishing many books, of which 
“ Morton House,” “A Question of Honor,” “A Daughter 
of Bohemia,” and “Heart of Steel” may be mentioned 
as the best. 

In 1887 she was married to Mr. James M. Tiernan, and 
has since chiefly resided in Mexico, where her husband has 
large mining interests. Out of Mrs. Tiernan's stay in 
Mexico have come “The Land of the Sun,” “ Picture of 
Las Cruces,” and “Carmela.” Her principal Catholic 
stories are “Armine,” “A Child of Mary," “Philip’s 
Restitution,” “Carmela,” “A Little Maid of Arcady,” and 
“ A Woman of Fortune.” 

Besides the books already mentioned, Mrs. Tiernan has 
written: “A Cast for Fortune,” “The Lady of Las Cruces,” 
“Mabel Lee,” “Ebb-Tide,” “Nina’s Atonement,” 
“Carmen’s Inheritance,” “A Gentle Belle,” “ Hearts and 
Hands,” “The Land of the Sky,” “ After Many Days,” 
“Bonny Kate,” “A Summer Idyl,” “ Roslyn’s Fortune,” 
“ Miss Churchill.” 


fln tbe (SJuebraba. 

BY CHRISTIAN REID. 

AMONG the wildest heights of the Sierra Madre 
in western Mexico is the town or mining camp of 
Topia, which occupies what would b ; in case of war 
an absolutely impregnable situation. It lies in a 
high, cup-shaped valley, with immense cliff-faced 
heights surrounding it like the walls of an amphi¬ 
theatre, while its only gate of entrance, save some 
trails over the hills, is a deep pass, or quebrada, cut 
through the mountains by a river which in immeas¬ 
urably distant ages forced a way for itself to the 
Pacific Ocean. 

Up this quebrada, which is almost impassable in 
the rainy season because the waters of the river then 
completely cover its boulder-strewn bottom—the 
greater part of which is in the other season dry—all 
supplies for the town are conveyed on the backs of 
men or of mules. During the dry months there is a 
constant succession of long trains of the last-named 
patient animals, bearing immense packs, passing 
over the trail—for road it cannot be called—which 
winds upward among the rocks, crossing and re¬ 
crossing hundreds of times the stream which flows 
down the pass. Of these trains the most important 


211 


212 


IN THE QUEBRADA. 


are the bullion trains, or conductas, from the mines, 
which carry down the product of their reduction 
works in massive bars of silver to the mint in the 
city of Culiacan, to be conveyed back in a few days 
in the form of freshly-coined dollars stamped with 
the Mexican eagle. These bullion trains would 
have been in times past a mark for constant robbery, 
but since the government has suppressed brigandage 
with so strong a hand they are very seldom molested. 
As a measure of precaution, however, they are 
always accompanied by a guard of two or three 
armed men, and the leader or “conductor” is 
always a man of proved honesty and strong nerve. 

Such a train set out one day from Culiacan, bear¬ 
ing many thousand dollars of freshly-coined silver 
for the Madrugada Mines in the mountains of 
Durango, and accompanied not only by the “con¬ 
ductor ” in charge and his men, but by a young 
American, Philip Earle by name, who w r as going as 
consulting engineer up to the mines. Having had 
considerable experience both in Mexico and South 
America, this young man was not at all daunted by 
anything which he had heard of the difficulties of 
the way, nor by the remote and almost inaccessible 
situation of the place for which he was bound. All 
that concerned him was the large salary offered him 
at the mines, for he was particularly anxious to make 
money and to make it fast. So, bidding good-bye 
to his friends in the flowery city of Culiacan, he set 
forth with the bullion train for the mountains which 
lay, blue and remote, on the eastern horizon. 


CHRISTIAN REID. 


213 


The journey of the first two days was common¬ 
place and monotonous enough to one who knew the 
country and was familiar with its customs. To one 
who was not, however, the nineteenth century, with 
its railroads and Pullman cars, would have seemed 
but a dream in this land where troops of mules and 
donkeys still transport all freight, where every man 
goes on horseback, and where at night the only 
places for lodging are the wayside fondas where the 
animals are turned into a corral while the traveller 
spreads on the ground the blanket which he carries 
and, with his saddle for pillow, sleeps—or does not 
sleep, as the case may be, to an accompaniment of 
the stamping of mules, grunting of pigs, and lowing 
of calves. 

Earle had, however, travelled in remote parts of 
Mexico before, and these things were almost as 
much a matter of course to him as to his com¬ 
panions, the dark, sinewy, Arab-like men who 
formed the escort of the train. It was only when 
they entered the quebrada on the third day that he 
found himself impressed by any novelty in his sur¬ 
roundings. And indeed the person would have 
been singularly obtuse who was not impressed by 
the wonderful grandeur of this pass, which seemed 
a way opened by Nature into the heart of her re¬ 
motest fastnesses. 

Bold green hills and precipitous cliffs lined the 
sides of the narrow gorge, the bottom of which was 
covered with stones worn into round shape by the 
erosion of water through countless ages; and as the 


2 T 4 


IN THE QUEER AD A. 


train of mules and men wound deeper and deeper 
into this wild canon, with the great rock-faced 
heights towering above them, they were conscious 
of an increasing sense of altitude. They had left 
behind the oppressive heat and relaxing atmosphere 
of the tierra caliente. A cool, Alpine freshness 
was now about them, the gift of the giant hills, and 
a luxuriant wealth of verdure began to adorn the 
stern grandeur of the pass, mingled with fantastic 
masses of rock of every shape and hue, and the 
constant charm of rippling, flashing, pouring water. 
Strange to say, also, as they penetrated farther 
human habitations began to appear more frequently. 
So excellent was the grazing for cattle on the hill¬ 
sides, and so rich the soil wherever a foothold could 
be secured for cultivation, that every few miles some 
house of primitive construction appeared, nestling 
under broad, rustling shade on some little point of 
vantage between the mountains and the rock-strewn 
quebrada. 

It was at the close of their first day in the pass, 
as twilight came on, with great masses of gorgeously 
tinted clouds flecking the narrow strip of sapphire 
sky over their heads, that Earle ranged his mule up 
beside that of the “ conductor” and inquired where 
they would spend the night. It seemed a very 
pertinent inquiry at the moment, for they were then- 
in a portion of the cafton so wild, so deep, so rugged 
that it seemed as if no human habitation could be 
near. But the Mexican replied without hesitation: 

“At Las Huertas, senor.” 


CHRISTIAN REID. 


2I 5 

“ Las Huertas! ” The young man looked around 
shrugging his shoulders. Nothing could have been 
less suggestive of gardens than this narrow pass in 
the heart of the frowning heights. “ And how far 
are we from the place ?” he asked. 

“ About a league,” the other replied. 

This meant an hour’s longer riding, for progress in 
the quebrada was slow; so, resigning himself, Earle 
rode on. Half an hour later stars were shining out 
of the dusky violet sky, toward which the massive 
hills that lined their way towered in austere remote¬ 
ness, and the murmur of the river was the only sound 
which met the ear except the plashing now and 
again of water as the train crossed some one of the 
many fords. Earle, who had lighted a cigar to 
solace the way, was very far in mind from his sur¬ 
roundings as he mechanically followed the man who 
rode in advance of him around the shoulder of a 
jutting cliff, where great masses of rock—detached 
from above by the disintegrating processes of Nature 
—were scattered in piled confusion, amid which the 
mules slowly and in single file picked their way, 
when suddenly— crack !—the sharp report of a rifle 
rang out close at hand, and the startled rush of the 
animals, the cries and shouts of the men told Earle 
at once that the train was attacked. In the same 
instant that he realized this, two more reports 
sounded in rapid succession, and as he endeavored 
to control his wildly frightened mule he was suddenly 
aware of a dark head appearing above a rock close 
beside him, and the levelled, shining barrel of a 


IN THE QUEBRADA . 


216 

gun. He spurred his already excited animal, and 
with a frantic bound it leaped forward just as a 
fourth report rang out. He was conscious of a 
stinging pain in his shoulder and of falling headlong 
from his saddle. After that he knew no more. 

Even as his loss of consciousness had been by the 
road of pain, so was his return to it. Red-hot 
throbs and darts of physical anguish recalled his 
senses from the dark region where they had 
remained unaware of the body until thus recalled 
to it. He opened his eyes, and they rested on a 
face that seemed to him like the creation of a 
dream. Dark, delicate, gentle, tender, draped in 
the dusky blue folds of a mantle, it was so like in 
type to the well-known face of Our Lady of 
Guadalupe, which hangs on the wall of every house, 
palace, or hut in Mexico, that he could not believe 
it to be other than a vision until, meeting the gaze 
of his eyes, the vision spoke in a voice as soft as 
her glance: 

“ Did I hurt you so much, sefior ? I was trying 
to do something for your wound.’’ 

“ What can you do ?” asked Earle with a groan. 
“ The ball must be in my shoulder, and only a 
doctor can take if out.” 

“ We have sent to Culiacan for a doctor,” she 
answered. “ He may be here to-morrow, but 
meanwhile it is necessary that your wound should 
be bandaged.” 

“ Bandage it, then,” said Earle, setting his teeth 
with a groan. 


CHRISTIAN REID. 


517 


He could not but acknowledge, however, that 
her touch was wonderfully deft and gentle, although 
she had not the skill of a surgeon or of a trained 
nurse. But the small dark hands, with the slender 
supple fingers of her race, had a soft skill of their 
own; and after she had bandaged the wound he 
looked at her gratefully. 

“ You did that very well,” he said, “ and it feels 
much better. But my head! I think it is injured 
worse than my shoulder. It struck a rock as I fell 
—that is the last thing I remember.” 

“ It is badly cut, but not broken,” she said. “ I 
have examined and bandaged it. That blow was 
what stunned you. I don’t think your shoulder is 
very badly hurt.” 

“But what occurred?” he asked, suddenly 
remembering the scene last imprinted on his con¬ 
sciousness—the dark pass, the piled rocks, the sharp 
report of the rifles, the frightened mules, the shout¬ 
ing men, the gun levelled with deliberate aim at 
him, the bullet in his shoulder, the fall from his 
plunging mule. “ Was any one killed ? ” he asked. 
“ Was the train robbed ? ” 

“ No one was killed, seflor— gracias a Dios!” 
she answered gravely. “ But injured, yes. Don 
Ramon lies dangerously wounded, and so is Manuel 
Alvarez. The silver was carried off.” 

“ By whom ? ” 

She shrugged her shoulders—apparently at the 
futility of the question. 

“ By robbers, without doubt, senor; but who they 


IN THE QUEBRADA. 


2I& 

were —quien sabe? It has been very long since any¬ 
thing of the kind happened in the quebrada before.” 

“ Have they been taken?” 

It seemed to him that she shrank, and that the 
soft tint of her face grew paler. 

“ No,” she answered, catching her breath a little, 
“ but the soldiers are out in search of them.” 

“ Then it is not likely they will escape,” said he 
with satisfaction. “ Things of this kind are not 
played with in Mexico. They catch their robbers 
—and when they catch them, they shoot them.” 

“ Si, senor,” she assented faintly. There was no 
doubt now of her increasing pallor, and the hands 
still busied about his bandages trembled excessively. 
He noted these things, thinking to himself that her 
nerves were somewhat overwrought by such tragic 
happenings. Then it suddenly occurred to him to 
wonder where he was, and he asked the question. 

“At Las Huertas, sefior,” she answered. She 
rose, adding gently: “ I will bring you food—it is 
necessary that you should take something.” 

As she left him he lay looking at the scene which 
surrounded him and taking in its details, as far as 
his dulled and weakened faculties would permit him 
to do so. He perceived that he was lying on a cot 
under a straw-thatched shed, such as formed a front 
to all the adobe farm-houses of the country. The 
usual dark, unventilated rooms were behind, but in 
front was what might readily have been transformed 
into a paradise of beauty, for it was a part of the 
huertas at the mention of which he had smiled. 


CHRISTIAN REID. 


219 


Through the glistening green foliage of a thick grove 
of orange-trees the sunshine flecked the ground in 
broken gleams; while under the arching boughs were 
to be caught glimpses of the rocky quebrada, with 
its towering heights, beyond, from whence came a 
constant murmur of the swiftly flowing river. This 
was for a little while the only sound which met the 
ear of Earle, then another reached him—a low, deep 
moan of pain. His eyes and attention thus drawn 
to his immediate neighborhood, he saw not far off, 
on a cot like his own, the recumbent form of Ramon, 
the “ conductor” of the bullion train; while farther 
yet, stretched on a pallet on the floor, was another 
prone and bloody figure. “It is like a hospital 
after battle,” he thought; “ but where are surgeons, 
nurses, means of help for any of us ? We shall 
probably all die from mortified wounds. My God! 
what a fool I was ever to have come here! ” 

He did not change this opinion even when, the 
next day, the doctor summoned from Culiacan 
arrived and speedily extracted the ball from his 
shoulder, declaring the wound not dangerous with 
proper care. The other men were also looked after 
and despatched to their homes near by. But when 
Earle pleaded to be taken to Culiacan, the surgeon 
promptly negatived the request. 

“ It would be exceedingly dangerous,” he said, 
“ to return to the hot country in your condition. 
No, you must stay here in the hills, and if you 
follow my directions carefully there is no reason 
why all should not go well with you. I will come 


220 


IN THE QUEBRADA. 


back in two or three weeks, and you can then decide 
whether you will return with me or go up to the 
mines. For the present I will leave you in the 
hands of the pretty daughter of the house here, 
who is unusually capable, with natural qualities for 
nursing, if no training.” 

“ There is something very soothing about her,” 
said Earle, languidly. 

It was this soothing quality, perhaps, which in 
the days that followed made him lean so upon this 
girl with the dark, tender face, so like the face of 
the Lady of Guadalupe. Once, when she was bend¬ 
ing over him in some act of ministration, the resem¬ 
blance seemed to him so striking that he said to her: 

“ Is your name Guadalupe? It should be.” 

She looked surprised. “ No, sefior,” she an¬ 
swered. “ My name is Innocencia. ” 

“Ah!” He could not but smile, the name 
seemed so appropriate to the expression of her 
face—to her whole air and manner, which was that 
of a childlike innocence blended with the gravity 
and wisdom of mature womanhood. Lying on his 
couch of pain, with nothing to do but observe what 
went on around him, he had seen that not only 
himself but every one else in the house depended 
on this quiet, gentle, capable creature, who went 
about her daily tasks so silently and deftly. She 
appeared to be the only child of her parents, who 
leaned upon her in equal degree—her father a grave, 
taciturn, apparently careworn man, and her mother 
a fretful invalid who could render no assistance in 


CHRISTIAN REID. 


221 


any household task. These tasks she performed 
with wonderful neatness and despatch, yet never 
permitted the stranger who so entirely looked to her 
for all his comfort to feel himself in the least neg¬ 
lected. And through all her many and varied 
duties she preserved ever the same gentle serenity, 
the same sweet purity of glance and manner which 
made Earle exclaim on hearing her name: 

“That is charming! You could not possibly 
have a name more appropriate to you—not even 
Guadalupe.” 

He saw that she blushed and the lids with their 
dark silken fringes fell over her eyes. “ The 
sefior is very good, ” she said, “ but he does not 
know a great deal of me. It is possible that he 
thinks better of me than I deserve.” 

“You deserve everything good that I could 
possibly think of you,” returned Earle with energy. 
“You have been my good angel. I owe my life 
to your kindness and care.” 

“ And if that were so, sefior, I should be very 
glad,” she answered with a sincerity which could 
not be doubted. “ Nothing could give me more 
happiness than to believe that I had saved your 
life.” 

“ You may believe it,” he said earnestly. “ But 
for your nursing, your constant care, I should surely 
have died.” 

So far from dying, however, he was soon able to 
walk about. And then it was that he fully realized 
the exceeding picturesqueness and beauty of the 


222 


IN THE QUEBRADA. 


place where fate had thrown him. The hills, reced¬ 
ing slightly from the quebrada , left a space a hundred 
or two yards in width, but in length perhaps half 
a mile, which was covered with the most luxuriant 
groves of orange and other fruit trees extending on 
each side of the house, which was set with its back 
immediately against the steeply rising mountains, 
covered with luxuriant forest growth. It was a 
delight to Earle when he grew stronger to wander 
out into these gardens, and in their leafy alleys—for 
the trees were planted in long rows—to try his 
strength in walking, or merely sit and absorb the 
marvellous beauty and tranquillity, the wild sylvan 
freshness, the sense of utter remoteness in the scene. 
And it grew daily more of a pleasure to him to 
watch for the appearance of Innocencia, as she 
would come to seek him at regular intervals with 
his food and medicine. He would establish himself 
at the end of the huerta farthest from the house, 
so as to prolong the pleasure of watching the 
advance of the slender figure, drawing nearer 
between the rows of trees, overarched by their 
foliage, amidst which gleamed the golden fruit. 
There was something so Arcadian in the whole 
environment that it made a perfect frame for that 
figure in its gentle grace, toward which his thoughts 
and feelings daily inclined with more of tenderness. 

It is an old story, that ol the heart of the con¬ 
valescent turning toward the nurse who has become 
necessary to him. But there was something more 
than the ordinary reason to account for Earle’s 


CHRISTIAN REID . 


223 


growing sense of attachment to this girl, who was 
so totally different from any woman he had ever 
known before, as different as this wild, remote, 
strangely beautiful chasm in the heart of the moun¬ 
tains was to the world left, it seemed to him, so far 
behind. 

And the reason, too, was an old one. He had 
left, with a sore and angry heart, not only that 
world, but another girl whom he had loved for years, 
but who had refused to share the fortunes of his 
wandering life. “ When you are able to return and 
live in civilization I will marry you,” she had said, 
to which he had replied hotly that in such case she 
preferred the advantages of civilization to himself. 
“ If you choose to think so,” she had answered 
proudly. And so the matter had ended with a broken 
engagement and a disappointed man going to bury 
himself in the most remote portion of Mexico. His 
thoughts had been dwelling angrily, bitterly on 
Alice Wilmot at the very instant when the attack 
on the train was made; he had recalled her brilliant, 
scornful beauty as if it had been before his eyes, 
and then—after the dark interval of unconsciousness 
—it was on the tender face of Innocencia that those 
eyes opened. Was the one appointed to heal the 
hurt inflicted by the other, the mental as well as 
the physical wound from which he was suffering ? 
As the days went on he began more and more to 
think so, more and more to lapse into a dream of 
passive content. 

But this content was suddenly and rudely shat- 


224 


IN THE QUEBRADA. 


tered. It chanced that one morning he rose very 
early after a restless night, and wandered out into 
the leafy alleys of the huerta before the sun had 
appeared over the mountains and while a certain 
obscurity of dawn still lingered in the dewy, fra¬ 
grant shades. As he sauntered along he was sur¬ 
prised suddenly to catch a glimpse of the familiar 
blue mantle of Innocencia in that part of the garden 
which bordered immediately upon the steep moun¬ 
tain-side. He turned at once and went toward her, 
with the pleasure which the sight of her always 
evoked quickening at his heart; and it was not 
until he had nearly reached her side that he per¬ 
ceived that she had a companion—a man, whose 
tall athletic figure was partially concealed by a 
clump of foliage as he stood, leaning on a rifle, 
before her. 

Earle paused abruptly. Something in the atti¬ 
tudes of the two persons, and the sound of their 
low earnest voices, told him that this meeting in 
the early dawn was not an ordinary one. He would 
have retreated unseen, could he have done so; but 
as he paused the man glanced up, saw him, and, 
quick as thought, raised his rifle. Amazed, Earle 
stood still, offering an excellent target had the other 
fired; but at the same moment Innocencia also per¬ 
ceived him and with a low cry struck up the gun. 
She then uttered a few words rapidly and passion¬ 
ately. The man scowled, hesitated an instant, then, 
turning, quickly sprang up the mountain-side and 


CHRISTIAN REID. 


225 


was almost immediately lost to sight in the dense 
forest. 

Innocencia stood looking after him for a moment 
before she walked slowly toward Earle, who still 
stood as if transfixed, the full significance of the 
scene having by this time dawned upon him. So 
she had a lover, this girl whom he had blindly 
thought so deserving of her exquisite name! And 
a lover whom she not only met in secret at un¬ 
seemly hours, but who was so brutal a desperado 
that he lifted his gun without provocation to fire 
on an unarmed man. It was no wonder that he 
regarded her sternly as she approached, so pale 
that in the pallid, misty dawn she seemed the mere 
wraith of herself. 

“ Sefior, ” she said, speaking faintly and with 
evident difficulty, “ you are out—very early.” 

“ Yes,” Earle assented, “ and I am sorry that 
chance should have brought me out to witness what 
I have seen. Yet,” with sudden energy, “ I am 
not sorry to learn the truth, however painful it may 
be. For I have thought so well of you that—” 

“ That it is now painful to you to think badly of 
me,” she said, as he hesitated. She had regained 
the calmness which usually characterized her man¬ 
ner, although she was still very pale; and as she 
stood before him he could not but think that there 
was nothing of the culprit in her aspect. Instead 
there was a strange mingling of dignity and pathos. 
“It is true,” she went on; “ you cannot think 


226 


IN THE QUEBRADA. 


otherwise than badly of me now, and you will per¬ 
haps think still worse when I ask you to do me the 
great favor not to mention to any one that you have 
seen—him who has gone away.” 

“ I should not have thought of mentioning the 
fact to any one,” Earle replied coldly. “ It is no 
concern of mine that you choose to meet in such a 
manner and at such a time one who is so little of 
a man that he lifts his weapon against a stranger 
unarmed and unoffending.” 

“ Pardon him, senor,” she pleaded. “ He is a 
hunted, desperate man, and he feared—” 

“That I would recognize him?” A sudden 
swift intuition flashed upon Earle. “ That was one 
of the robbers of the bullion train,” he declared 
with positive conviction. “ Perhaps the very man 
who shot me. You cannot deny it.” 

“ Seftor! ” She clasped her hands and looked 
at him piteously, appealingly. 

“ My God! ” said Earle, regarding her with eyes 
that burned with indignation. “ I fancied myself 
in an honest, hospitable house, and instead I am in 
a haunt of robbers. I fancied you goodness incar¬ 
nate, and instead you are—” 

He paused, suffocated with passion; and as he 
paused she came nearer to him, holding out her 
clasped hands and lifting her eyes full of supplica¬ 
tion. 

“ Of me, seflor, think what you will,” she cried, 
“ but do not think for a moment that my parents 
know anything of this. My father’s house is honest 


CHRISTIAN REID . 


227 


—he would die sooner than harbor a robber within 
it. Oh, be just to him and believe this! ” 

“ I am glad to believe it,” replied Earle sternly; 
“ but in that case how is it possible for you, the 
daughter of an honest man, to meet secretly one 
who is a highway robber, and a murderer as well at 
heart? ” 

She burst into an agony of weeping, burying her 
face in her slender hands, and it was several minutes 
before she could answer him. Then she said 
between her sobs: 

“ All that you say of him is true. I cannot deny 
it, and —valgame Dios !—I cannot tell you why I 
meet this man. Only, it would break my fathers 
heart to know it, and I pray you, therefore, say 
not a word—” 

“ I have already told you that I will say nothing,” 
Earle interposed abruptly. “ But I shall make im¬ 
mediate preparations to leave this place, where I 
now feel that my life is unsafe.” 

Giving her no time to reply, he turned with the 
last words and walked away. 

It was the afternoon of the same day that Earle, 
leaving the shady groves of Las Huertas, walked 
across the quebrada to its farther side, where the 
river flowed along the base of towering cliffs. 
Seating himself in the deep cool shadow cast by 
these, he gave himself up to very bitter reflections. 
On the exact nature of these reflections, especially 
as concerned the ineradicable depravity of fem¬ 
inine nature, it is unnecessary to dwell. They have 


228 


m THE QUEBRADA . 


been the reflections in all ages of those who leaped 
too rapidly from particular examples to general 
conclusions. Mingling in his thoughts the heart¬ 
lessness of Alice Wilmot with the duplicity of Inno- 
cencia, he sat moodily gazing at the stream and 
wishing that it were possible to leave Las Huertas 
without an hour’s further delay. But departure 
had proved more difficult than he had anticipated. 
Mules and a guide were to be obtained, all of which 
involved delay and required an exercise of patience 
to which he felt himself at present unequal. He 
had come out, therefore, to escape at once the 
annoyance of endeavoring to explain his sudden 
departure to his host, and the sight of Innocencia, 
which had become intensely painful to him. 

But was he not to escape this sight after all ? 
For, lifting his eyes suddenly, whom should he see 
hastening toward him across the rock-strewn space 
that lay between Las Huertas and the stream but 
Innocencia herself! She was running as fast as was 
possible over the stones, almost falling now and 
again, but recovering herself quickly and coming on 
with unabated speed. Earle regarded her approach 
with a wonder which grew into positive amazement 
when she at last reached him and paused, pale, 
panting, agitated as he had never seen her before. 
He sprang to his feet, thinking for an instant that 
she was about to faint. 

“ What is the matter ?” he asked, assisting her 
to a seat on a stone. “ What has happened ? ” 

She looked up at him—a wild terror, as he now 


CHRISTIAN REID. 


229 


perceived, in her eyes, and a passionate entreaty as 
well. 

“ Sefior,” she gasped, “ he has been taken—the 
man whom you saw this morning—” 

“ Ah! ” he said, with an instant hardening of 
feeling which was reflected in his face and voice. 
This, then, was what her agitation meant! Her 
villainous lover had been captured by the guards 
who had been searching the mountains for days; 
and she knew well what little chance of escape, what 
short shrift, there was for such criminals when once 
taken. Earle made no effort to speak other than 
coldly as he asked, “ What then ? ” 

She cast an agonized look across the quebrada; 
and, following it, he saw a group issuing from the gate 
of Las Huertas and coming across the rocks toward 
him. It was a party of soldiers escorting a prisoner. 

“ Sefior/’ she cried, catching his hand in both of 
her own, “ they are bringing him to you, to see if 
you will identify him as—as one of those who 
attacked the conducta . When I heard that, I said 
that I would come in search of you; and I ran away 
before they could stop me, to beg you for the love 
of God to be merciful—to have pity—” 

“ Stop! ” said Earle almost roughly, for the men 
were now half-way across the quebrada. “ Let me 
understand you. Have they no proof against the 
man unless I can identify him ? ” 

“ None, sefior, none. They suspect him—ah, 
valgame Dios !—but they know nothing. It is all 
with you.” 


230 


IN THE QUEBRADA . 


“ Be quiet now,” said Earle in the same sternly 
commanding tone. “ They are almost here, and 
they must not suppose that you have appealed to 
me. Turn your face away or it will betray you.” 

As she obeyed him with one last piteous glance, 
he stepped forward so as futther to shield her; and 
taking a few steps met the party, which had now 
reached him. They halted, salutations were ex¬ 
changed between himself and the officer in com¬ 
mand of the guards, and the latter then said: 

“ We believe, senor, that we have captured one 
of the robbers who attacked the conducta the night 
you were wounded. He bears a very bad name, but 
we lack direct evidence against him; and we have 
brought him to see if you can perhaps identify him, 
since we are informed that you alone saw one of 
the assailants on that occasion.” 

Earle looked at the prisoner, whose face he had 
hardly observed in the early morning. It was easy 
to observe it now, for he held his head haughtily 
erect, and his dark eyes were full of defiance under 
their level brows as they met without wavering 
those of the man whose word could send him to 
death. There was no fear in them and no appeal. 
Just so it was certain they would face the muskets 
which in a little while would be levelled to shoot him 
did Earle only say, “ That is the man.” 

With the involuntary feeling of admiration which 
courage always evokes, Earle turned to the obser¬ 
vant, expectant officer beside him. 

“ You will remember, seftor,” he said quietly, 


CHRISTIAN REID. 


231 


“ that the attack on the condticta took place at 
night. Therefore, although it is true that I saw 
one of the robbers just before I was shot by him, I 
could not be certain enough of his appearance to 
identify him, and I cannot possibly declare that this 
man is he.” 

“You positively cannot identify him as one of 
your assailants ? ” asked the officer in a disappointed 
tone. 

“ I positively cannot do so.” 

“ Then we need not trouble you further. Adios, 
sefior.” 

“ Adios , Sefior Capitano.” 

Hats were lifted, the officer gave a word of com¬ 
mand to his men and they turned back across the 
quebrada with their prisoner, the look of relief on 
whose face was visibly mingled with surprise. 

Earle remained silently watching them until they 
were well out of earshot. Then he turned again 
toward Innocencia. But he was not prepared for 
her rising from the stone on which he had placed 
her, and, before he could divine her intention or 
prevent her, taking his hand and kissing it. Almost 
violently he drew it away. 

“ For God’s sake, spare me! ” he exclaimed pas¬ 
sionately. “ I need no further proof of how much 
you love this brigand—for that I am sure he is, 
though I have suppressed the truth in order to save 
him.” 

“ It is because you have saved him, sefior, that 
I thank you,” she said in a tone of deepest feeling. 


232 IN THE QUEBRADA . 

“ I want no thanks,” he replied angrily. “ I 
have simply paid a debt. And I am glad to have 
been able to do so without perjuring myself. I did 
not recognize the man—how could I identify a face 
seen only for a moment in the obscurity of night ? 
But I have not the faintest doubt of his guilt, and 
I only refrained from expressing my conviction 
because, if he nearly took my life, I owe its preser¬ 
vation to you. And so, for your sake, I have 
spared him—though it might have been better, 
even for your sake,” he added gloomily, “ if I 
had identified him, and so insured his being shot.” 

“ Do not say that, senor,” she pleaded, growing 
if possible a shade paler, “ for you would have 
broken not only my heart, but the hearts of my 
poor father and mother as well. He is my only 
brother.” 

“ Innocencia! ” 

It was a cry in which gladness, relief, reproach 
were mingled indescribably; but Innocencia went 
on without heeding, in her low pathetic tones: 

“ I did not intend to tell you, senor, for the sake 
of my poor father, who is so honest, so good, and 
to whom it is so sore a trial, so heavy a cross that 
his son is otherwise. To escape the disgrace he 
brought upon us, my father left his home beyond 
the mountains yonder ”—she pointed eastward — 
“ and came here, thinking that Cipriano would not 
find us and no one here need know with what a son 
God had afflicted him. But he discovered where 
we had gone and followed us. My father refused 


CHRISTIAN REID . 


233 


to allow him to enter his house. He went away, 
swearing that he should regret it. And soon after 
this, sefior, occurred the attack on the condticta . 
I knew nothing of my brother’s connection with it, 
but I feared, I trembled, and so did my father. 
And this morning, when I went out early to milk 
the cows, he—Cipriano—came down the mountain 
and spoke to me. He told me that he was closely 
pursued, that he would be shot if taken, and begged 
me to hide him. We were still talking, for I knew 
not what to do, when you came—and the rest you 
know.” 

“ My poor Innocencia! ” said Earle, taking her 
hands and regarding her with eyes in which com¬ 
passion and pleasure were subtly mingled. “ So 
this is the explanation. What a fool, as well as a 
brute, I have been!—a fool to think for a moment 
that you could have been guilty of what I imagined, 
and a brute to treat you in any case as I have 
done. Can you forgive me in consideration of the 
only excuse I have to offer—that I love you with 
all my heart, and that it maddened me to be forced 
to believe you unworthy of that love ? ” 

“ Sefior! ” She drew back as if frightened. 
“ It is impossible ”—she caught her breath—“ it 
is not right that you should speak so to me—” 

“ And why not ? ” he asked impetuously. “ Do 
you not know that you have healed my heart as 
well as my body, that I have daily learned to love 
you more, until now I cannot live without you—” 

She drew her hands from his clasp, and retreating 


234 IN THE QUEBRADA . 

slightly from him, stood looking at him, smiling a 
little sadly. 

“ Oh, yes, senor, ” she said in her musical accents, 
“ you will easily learn to live without the poor 
Mexican girl who has had the happiness of repairing 
in some measure the evil her unhappy brother 
wrought, but who is not fitted to share your life. 
No, senor,”—as he attempted to speak—“ say no 
more, I beg. You forget the great difference 
between your life and mine.” 

“It is true,” Earle replied simply. “ I forget 
everything, and desire to forget everything— 
except that I love you.” 

She shook her head. “ But that is not right,” 
she said. “ There are many things which you 
should remember—your country, your friends—” 

He made a gesture as if he abjured them. “ I 
give them up,” he said. “ All that I ask is to 
stay here with you.” 

“ Here—in th z quebrada ! ” She smiled again, 
almost pityingly. “ Ah, seftor, what a little time 
it would be before you would hate the qnebrada, 
and perhaps poor Innocencia too, were she foolish 
enough to listen to you. But it is because you are 
still weak from your illness that you think these 
things. When you are strong and go back to 
the great world, of which you have talked to me, 
you will wonder that you ever thought of staying 
here or of loving a girl who is so poor, so igno¬ 
rant—” 

“ And so divinely good and tender,” he cried, 


CHRISTIAN REID. 


235 


taking her hand again. “ Innocencia, what do I 
care for any of these things ? I care only for, I 
think only of you." 

Then think of me, senor,” she said quietly, 
“ as one whose duty is fixed. You have seen how 
it is—my parents are heart-broken over the loss of 
their only son. I am all they have and I will never 
leave them. That promise long since I made to 
God and to my own heart. But even if this were 
not so—if my parents had not such need of me, if 
my brother were not disgraced—I could not be so 
foolish as to listen to you, who would so soon 
regret your own folly—” 

“ Innocencia! ” 

She suddenly lifted her hand and pointed. 
“Yonder,” she said, “comes the senor doctor 
from Culiacan, who will take you back with him. 
And it is better so.” 

“ Hallo, Earle!” said the doctor when, having 
dismounted from his mule at the gate of Las 
Huertas, he came across the quebrada to his patient; 
“ I am delighted to see you so much improved. 
And for your further improvement I have brought 
with me a most efficacious medicine.” 

“ I have no need of any more medicine,” said 
Earle, ungraciously. “ I have taken enough of the 
stuff you left for me.” 

“Ah, this is medicine of another and better 
kind,” returned the doctor. “ It will give you all 
the strength you need to accompany me to Culiacan 
to-morrow.” 


2 S 6 


IN THE QUEBRADA. 


“ I have no intention of returning to Culiacan,” 
said Earle. “ I am going up to the mines.” 

“ You are not strong enough yet for that trip,” 
said the doctor, decidedly. “ You must come back 
to Culiacan, and then take a companion with you 
when you start again for the mountains of Du¬ 
rango.” 

“ A companion! ” Earle glanced at the figure 
of Innocencia as, draped in her blue mantle, she 
was passing across the quebrada homeward. “ I 
haven’t the least desire for any companion who 
is likely to care to accompany me,” he said 
gloomily. 

“ One never knows,” returned the doctor, mys¬ 
teriously, “ what might turn up. It is the unex¬ 
pected that happens, you know. Oh, confound 
it, Earle, I am a bad hand at either keeping a secret 
or breaking news! The long and the short of it is, 
that I have a letter for you from the most charming 
young lady in the world.” 

“Forme!” Earle stared in amazement. “But 
I don’t know a young lady in Culiacan.” 

“This young lady only arrived in Culiacan the 
other day, from San Francisco. She had heard 
some news which concerned her very much, and so 
she came. Here is her letter.” 

He produced from his pocket a letter which he 
handed to Earle, and then rising walked away. 

With the feeling of one in a dream, Earle opened 
and read: 


CHRISTIAN REID. 


237 


‘ Philip: We have both been foolish, and I 
apparently heartless. But I learned when I heard 
of your danger that I am not heartless, so I have 
thrown pride away and come to share all your 
dangers henceforth. Are you glad ? If so, come 
quickly to 

“ Alice.” 

When Earle looked up from the sheet which bore 
these lines of writing his eyes had a dazzled light 
in them, as if under amazement joy were dawning. 
But he turned his gaze to the spot where he had 
last seen Innocencia. She had disappeared. 






V 

MARY A. SADLIER. 


Mrs. Mary A. Sadlier was born in Cootehill, County 
Cavan, Ireland, where her father, Francis Madden, Esq., 
was a highly respected merchant. Miss Madden began 
her literary career by poetical contributions to La Belle 
Assemblee , a London Magazine. Shortly after her emi¬ 
gration to America, Miss Madden was married to Mr. James 
Sadlier, the publisher. From this time forth, she embarked 
upon a literary career which lasted with but little interrup¬ 
tion for almost half a century. She edited for some years 
the New York Tablet , being fortunate in such co-laborers 



















and contributors as Dr. Brownson, Hon. T. D. McGee, 
Dr. Ives, Henry Giles, M. E. Blake, Dr. Huntington, Dr. 
Anderson, and John McCarthy. In March, 1895, Mrs. 
Sadlier received the Laetare Medal from the University of 
Notre Dame, an honor conferred on few. 

Amongst her best-known works are : ‘ ‘ The Confederate 
Chieftains,” “ Blakes and Flanagans,” “Old and New,” 
“The Hermit of the Rock,” “ Bessy Conway,” “ Maureen 
Dhu,” “New Lights, or Life in Galway,” “ Confessions of 
an Apostate,” “ Elinor Preston,” “ MacCarthy More,” 
“ Daughter of Tyrconnell,” “ Old House by the Boyne,” 
“Heiress of Kilorgan,” “Red Hand of Ulster.” “Aunt 
Honor’s Keepsake,” “Con O'Regan,” “Willy Burke,” 
“Alice Riordan,” “Fate of Father Sheehy,” “Agnes of 
Braunsberg,’ ’ and jointly with her daughters a volume of short 
tales, “ Stories of the Promises.” Mrs. Sadlier also com¬ 
piled a catechism of “Sacred History,” “A Young Ladies’ 
Reader,” “Purgatory: Doctrinal, Historical, and Poetical.” 
Her translations include: “ De Ligny’s Life of Christ,” 
“ Orsini’s Life of the Blessed Virgin,” “ Lambruschini’s 
Immaculate Conception.” “Collot’s Catechism,” “The 
Orphan of Moscow,” “The Spanish Cavaliers,” “Catholic 
Anecdotes” in three volumes, “The Lost Son,” “The 
Castle of Rousillon,” “ The Year of Mary,” “ Legends of 
St. Joseph.” “ Meditations on the Holy Eucharist,” “ Eas¬ 
ter in Heaven,” “The Pope’s Niece.” “The Bohemians,” 
“Salim,” “The Vendetta,” “ The Exile of Tadmor,” “The 
Poachers,” “The Great Day,” “Benjamin,” “The Devil,” 
“ The Family,” “The Priest's Sister and the Inheritance,” 
“ Ten Stories,” “ Tales and Stories.” 


Sbait Dentpseg’s Storg. 


BY MARY A. SADLIER. 

Let not ambition mock their useful toil, 

Their homely joys and destiny obscure; 

Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile 
The short and simple annals of the poor.— Gray. 

The old Catholic homesteads of Ireland have each 
and all their regular set of dependents or hangers- 
on, wholly apart from the domestics, yet belong¬ 
ing, as it were, to the family. What Catholic is 
there of the middle or upper classes, brought up 
in that country, 

“Where smiles hospitality, hearty and free,” 

who has not a circle of these humble friends and 
followers associated with the memories of “auld 
lang syne”? A cherished place do they hold, these 
“ well-remembered ” beggars, in the heart’s record 
of early life. They were the story-tellers of our 
youth, and had more to do than, perhaps, is gener¬ 
ally believed with developing what nature gave of 
imagination. How eagerly the children of the 
family longed for the periodical visits of these suc¬ 
cessors of the senachies of old! Their presence was 
241 


242 


SHAN DEMPSEY'S STORY. 


more joyfully welcomed than had they been royal 
personages. 

Amongst the individuals of this class whom I best 
remember was an old man of the name of Shan 
Dempsey. He considered himself, and was by 
others treated, as above the ordinary run of beggars. 
He was as poor as poverty could make him. Yet 
somehow he always contrived to appear “ a little 
decent,’' in an old, snuff-colored surtout much too 
long for his bent figure, gray corduroys, and in¬ 
different woollen hose. 

He had reached the last of Shakespeare’s stages, 
so that the aforesaid hose were ever 

“ A world too wide 
For his shrunk shanks,” 

and his attenuated frame was bent almost double. 
Yet when he glanced up from beneath his shaggy 
eyebrows there was a sort of weird intelligence in 
his glance that both surprised and attracted one 
in some inexplicable way. It was the waning light 
of an intellect which had never borrowed either 
from art or culture, but which might have made 
some noise in the world had it been assisted and 
developed by instruction. As it was, poor Shan was 
confessedly illiterate, yet his natural shrewdness 
and quickness of perception gave him, like many 
other Irish peasants, a considerable knowledge of 
human nature. 

He had been observant all his life long. The 
past seemed as vividly present in his memory as 


MARY A. SAD LIE R. 


243 


though the snows of fourscore winters had not 
silvered his head. Shan’s reminiscences were 
mostly connected with the affairs of others. Seldom 
did they bear upon his own. It seemed to us 
children that some cloud hung over his own life, 
and the very indifference with which he affected to 
treat it made us the more anxious to know why 
he should be destitute when his only son was well- 
to-do, having a lucrative position as guard of a 
stage-coach and owning a small farm besides. For 
a long time Shan kept our curiosity at bay. When 
our questions pressed him rather hard, he would 
suddenly remember a romantic tale concerning some 
great family, and for the time made us forget Shan’s 
secret, as we chose to call it. 

“ Well, then, it’s no secret, after all,” said the old 
man, one winter evening, when he sat in his accus¬ 
tomed place by the wide kitchen chimney, bellows 
in hand. He seemed to have a fancy for blowing 
that useful wind-instrument. “ Sure, doesn’t the 
whole country-side about the ould place know it. 
But, ye beat the world, childer, for pickin’ out o’ 
people. I b’lieve ye’ll never be aisy till you know 
the ins and outs of it. Will you reach me a drink, 
Master John, dear, an’ I’ll tell you how it was, onst 
for all.” 

The drink was given with unusual despatch, and 
Shan, after sitting a few moments with his old, 
twinkling eyes fixed on the turf fire, the bellows 
across his eye, his hand on the handle ready for 
use, he thus began his story: 


244 


SHAN DEMPSEY'S STORY. 


“ Well, I declare, childer,” he said with visible 
effort, “ it isn’t much of a story, afther all. Still, 
as you want to hear it and it’s something by com¬ 
mon, thanks be to God ! I may as well open my 
mind to you. But the sore’s a deep one that I’m 
going to rip up. Farear gar , it is.” 

Another short pause and a few leisurely puffs at 
the fire, and Shan spoke again: 

‘‘ It’s thrue enough for them that tould you I 
might be well enough at home with Tommy, for he 
has ten acres of as good ground as you’d get from 
here to Ballyshannon. When I had them, better 
oats didn’t come into the market than I brought; 
and as for the praties, why it ’id do you good just 
to look at them, laughin’ in the basket after they 
were teemed. I’m tould nayther one no th’ 
other’s as good now with them, for the neighbors 
think there’s a curse on the place of late years.” 

“ A curse on the ground, Shan! How can that 
be ? ” 

il Listen, aroon, and you’ll soon hear; that’s 
what I’m goin’ to tell you. I wasn’t always as 
you see me now. Poor and lonesome as I am the 
day, I onst had as full an’ plenty, an’ as good a 
wife as ever broke the world’s bread, and a houseful 
of fine, hearty childer, boys and girls, as God sent 
them. Tommy was the youngest, and, mavrone , 
sure we made a pet of him entirely, and for loath¬ 
ness to put him at hard work, it’s what we let him 
grow up in idleness when all the others had to take 
their share of the work, rough and smooth, just as 


MARY A. SAD LIE R. 


MS 


it came. Many a time they grumbled hard to see 
Tommy goin’ about sportin’ his figure at fair and 
market, an’ they workin’ hard at home, though by 
this time he was a’most as big an’ strong as any of 
them. Still they kep’ it among themselves for fear 
of frettin’ the poor mother, that was weak and sickly 
anyhow. At last she broke down altogether, an’ it 
was the first heavy crush my heart got when we 
covered her up in the dry mould of Kilmarky. At 
first there was nobody took on half so bad as 
Tommy; but somehow or another he was the first 
to get over it, and before many weeks went round 
he was as brisk and merry as if the like never hap¬ 
pened. 

“Sure enough this went to my heart, and 
I was so angry at the fellow for his want of grati¬ 
tude that I couldn’t keep my tongue off him. 
When I did begin I tould him his own, never fear 
but I did. It’s what he only laughed at me, an’ 
said hard work wasn’t to his likin’, an’ that he 
believed he’d try his hand at something lighter. 
I asked him what he meant to do, but he wouldn’t 
tell me at that time, all I could do. He cut his 
stick that same evening, and the next we heard of 
him he was stable-boy at the Head Inns, here in 
town. Myself and the rest laughed when we found 
out what the graceless fellow was at, for if our work 
was hard, sure his wasn’t aisy, an’ we knew it ’id 
soon cure him of his laziness. 

“ Every one in the house, barrin’ myself, was glad 
to be shot of him; but I missed him sorely, if it was 


246 


SHAN DEMPSEY'S STORY. 


nothing else, on account of the poor mother that 
thought so much of him. Night and day I fretted 
and grieved, and at last I wanted so much to see his 
roguish face back at the hob, that off I set into 
town and done my best to bring him home with 
me. But if I was to lay the hair o’ my head under 
his feet, sorra a step he’d come, only put me off 
with a laugh and made a joke of it. Well becomes 
the boys and girls at home if they didn’t make 
game o’ me when I got back, and said it was a pity 
Tommy wasn’t tied on my back, so that I’d get 
enough of him. But at last when they seen I was 
keepin’ so down-hearted, some of them began to 
get angry, and said that maybe I’d get more raison 
to fret before long. So I did, God help me! Take 
my advice, childer, and never grieve without good 
raison. It’s not pleasin’ to them above, as I know 
to my heavy sorrow.” 

Poor Shan stopped, gave a few blasts, pressed 
his lips very hard together, and winked several times 
to shake the gathering tears from his eyelids. No 
one spoke, for young as most of the listeners were, 
the sight of the old man’s grief awed them into 
silence. When he spoke again his voice was thick 
and husky, but at a higher pitch than usual—prob¬ 
ably because he feared it might fail him altogether. 

‘‘Not many days after I went to town,” he con¬ 
tinued, “ the boys and girls were all out shearin’ 
corn, barrin’ my daughter Ally, that was w r ashin' the 
vessels afther dinner-time. I wassittin’ one side o’ 
the fire makin’ a potato-basket out o’ some rods 


Mar y a. sadlier. 247 

I had, thinkin’ o’ poor Molshy and dronin’ a kind 
o’ a song, when in walks a little ould-fashioned crab 
of a lame beggar man, with a wallet on his back 
a’most as big as himself. 

“ He had the quarest little red eyes ever you 
seen in a man, and a hooked nose that was down 
a’most over his mouth. Not a word he said—neither 
‘ God save you’ nor ‘ morrow be here,’ but in he 
stumped and popped himself down on a creepy 
right forenenst me. He flung his bag down on the 
floor, an’ you’d think from the noise it made that 
it was crammed with ould iron in place of potatoes 
or anything that way. 

“ ‘God save you, honest man!’ says I at last 
when I seen he didn’t spake; ‘ did you travel far 
the day ? ’ 

“ * Farther than you’ll travel in a year,’ says he, 
quite short; an’ with that he turns round and claps 
his ferret eyes on Ally. The gersha was smudgin’ 
an’ laughin’ in to herself, and no wonder she would, 
for so quare an ould codger never came the way 
before. 

“‘What’s the gersha laughin’ at?’ he says; 
‘ maybe to show her purty teeth. They’ll do, a 
colleen , they’ll do.’ 

“ And the ould joker nodded and winked at her 
as if he was a young chap ready for all sorts of fun. 

“ 4 Ally,’ says I, ‘ give the decent man his share 
and let him be goin’,’—for myself didn’t like the 
looks of him or the way he was carryin’ on. 

“ I want no charity,’ answers the beggarman, 


248 SHAN DEMPSEY'S STORY. 

‘ nothin’ that’s yours, barrin’ what you’d hardly 
be willin’ to give me.’ 

“ ‘ An’ what’s that ? ’ says I. 

“ ‘ That schemin’ girl there,’ says he. 4 If you 
give her to me I’ll make it worth your while.’ 

0 At this Ally laughed till you’d think she’d 
burst, but it was the other way with me. 

“ 1 By this and by that,’ says I, takin’ up the 
tongs, ‘ if you don’t get out o’ my sight, you ould 
leprachaun of a creature, I’ll smash every bone in 
your body.’ 

“ ‘ Don’t be makin’ so free with the name of them 
that’s your betters,’ says the ould fellow, beginnin’ 
to bristle up. ‘ I ask you a civil question, .Shan 
Dempsey: Will you or will you not give me your 
daughter Ally? ’ 

“ ‘ Get out o’ my sight, I tell you, or I can’t 
answer for what’ll happen,’ I cried, an’ I made as 
though I would strike him. He never answered a 
word, but looked up in my face in a way I’ll never 
forget. 

“ ‘ Don’t strike,’ says he; ‘ don’t, I warn you; if 
you do you’ll only have once to rue it, an’ that’ll 
be your whole life. I wish you well, though you 
mayn’t think it, an’ I came here for no harm.’ 

“ ‘ Father, dear,’ says Ally, coming behind me, 
‘ let the man go quietly. He’s cracked,’ added she 
in a whisper. 

“ ‘ I’m not cracked, Ally Dempsey,’ says the 
quare ould customer, ‘ an’ you’ll know that, too, 
before long. Still, I’m thankful to you for the soft 


MARY A. SADLIER. 249 

word, an’ I’ll give you a bed of down for it some 
fine day, with a coach an’ with soft cushions to take 
your pleasure in. Fare you well till we meet 
again! ’ 

“ I was so confounded that I couldn’t get out a 
word, if I’d die for it; an’ as for strikin’—why the 
tongs fell out of my hand as if I’d lost the power 
of it, though I didn’t, thank God! Without sayin’ 
another word, the beggarman ups with his bag, 
threw it across his shoulder, and out he marched, 
makin’*a face at myself as he passed me by that 
’id make you laugh if you were half dead. It did 
set Ally agoin’ again, an’ she laughed till the tears 
ran down her cheeks, throwin’ herself down on the 
very creepy where the ould fellow sat. I was vexed 
to see her make so light of his impidence, an’ some¬ 
how I didn’t half like to see her pop down on the 
stool the minute he rose from it. I hardly know 
what I said to her, but I said plenty, for the tears 
came into her eyes, and she looked at me with such 
a pitiful face that I got sorry for spakin’ so hard to 
her, only I wouldn’t own to it. 

“ ‘ Well, father,’ says she, as she got up an’ 
began to put the vessels she had washed on the 
dresser, 1 it’s a poor thing to be blamed for what a 
crazy beggarman says and does, but I suppose we 
must put up with it. God forgive you for all you’ve 
said to me without rhyme or raison, an’ I’m sure 
it’s more than you’ve said to Tommy the wildest 
day ever he was.’ 

“ This softened me down in a jiffy, and so I laid 


250 SHAN DEMPSEY'S STORY. 

my hand on the colleen s head, a silky, brown head 
it was, and bid her not take it so much to heart, 
for that I didn’t mean half what I said. That was 
all Ally wanted, an’ she started as merry as a cricket 
to give the others a hand at the shearin’. Towards 
evenin’ she came back and put down some sowens 
to boil for the supper, an’ then leavin’ me to stir 
it, she took her pail and went off in search of the 
cows to milk. 

“ Whatever put it into my head, I went to the 
door an’ stood lookin’ afther her, an’ sure enough 
I felt proud o’ her as she tripped along over the 
green pasture, singin’ like a thrush or a linnet. It 
was as fine an evenin’ as ever came from the 
heavens, and the sun was just settin’ behind Lis- 
carron Forth.* I looked up at the Fairy hill, an’ 
you’d think there wasn’t a tree on it but was covered 
with goold. ‘ Ah,’ says I, ‘ it’s a pity the dark 
treachery’s in you for all you look so smilin’.’ 
Little did I think at the time the heavy woe it was 
goin’ to send down on me.” 

Here Shan paused again, rubbed the back of his 
hand across his eyes, gave two or three heavy sighs, 
and when he did speak it was in a choking voice. 

“ That was the last sight I ever saw of my poor 
Ally—in life, anyhow. The ould calliogh that 
brought back the milk was no more like her than 

* This is one of those primitive fortresses with which the 
earlier inhabitants of the country dotted the face of Ireland. 
They are called forths (i.e., forts) and raths indiscriminately, 
and are popularly regarded as the haunts of fairies. 


MARY A. SADL1ER. 


25 1 


I'm like Master Frank there—God between him 
and all harm! She had Ally’s clothes on, to be 
sure, but that was all. They were all at their 
supper when she comes in, an’ down she sets the 
pail with a grunt like a pig. 

“ 1 'Deed, then, an’ it’ll be a long time before 
you’ll get me to carry such a load agin,’ says she. 

“ An’ so it was, for she never did that nor any¬ 
thing else all the time she was on our floor. The 
voice made us all look round, for we seen at onst 
it wasn’t Ally that was in it. 

“ ‘ Why,’ says I, ‘ honest woman, where do you 
come from ? Sure you’re not our Ally ? ’ 

“ An’ with that I thought of the ould beggar- 
man, an’ my blood ran cowld in my veins. 

“ ‘ If I’m not,’ says she, puckerin’ up her wea¬ 
zened face into a kind of a laugh, ‘ if I’m not, I’m 
thinkin’ I’m all you’ll ever get of her. In regard 
to where I came from, it’s nothin’ to you. Make 
room at the table there till I get my supper. I 
hope you didn’t let the sowens burn, father, while 
you stood with your mouth open lookin’ afther me. 
Bad scran to them cows, but I had hard work to 
find them, an’ when I did it was in the forth they 
were, the thievin’ villains.’ 

“ She said this with such a wicked twinkle in her 
ould eyes that we all knew she wanted to taunt us 
about Ally, but we thought it best to say no more, 
so the girls gave her a noggin of milk and made her 
sit over to the table. Lord save us and bless us! 
it ’id frighten you to see what the little ould thing 


252 SHAN DEMPSEY'S STORY. 

ate. Bedad, she left the rest of us stinted enough 
anyway, but vve couldn’t for shame’s cause bid her 
stop, an’ she ate on an’ on till there wasn’t a pratie 
left on the big wooden dish. If that was the 
beginnin’, it wasn’t the end of it. Every day of 
her life it was just the same, till at last we thought 
she’d ate us out of house an’ home. The fun of 
it was, she wouldn’t do a hand’s turn in the house, 
but sat from mornin’ till night in the chimney-cor¬ 
ner, givin’ ould chat to every one that came the 
way; an’ a tongue like a razor she had, too, that ’id 
cut you to the very bone. We were all afeard to 
discommode her in the least, an’ though we’d give 
the world to be shot of her, we’d as soon, any of 
us, put our head in the fire as say an ill word to 
her. 

“ Neither of the girls would sleep with her, so 
we made her a shakedown by herself in a corner of 
the room; an’ Lord save us, she’d tumble into that 
at night and get out of it in the mornin’ without 
ever bendin’ a knee or even as much as blessin’ 
herself. We knew well that luck or grace couldn’t 
be in the house with such a haythen, but, then, 
what could we do? Some o’ the neighbors advised 
us to bring the priest to her, and well becomes me, 
so I did. But what do you think of the ould 
sinner, when myself an’ Father Terence—God be 
good to him!—got to the house, she wasn’t in it, up 
or down! His reverence had a laugh at myself, for 
he wasn’t willin’ to come with me at the start on 
such an errand. He was hardly back at his own 


MAXY A. SAD LIE R. 


2 53 


house when we had her at the hob again, as large 
as life, an’ her laughin’ till you’d think she’d split 
her sides. Two or three times she played us the 
same trick, an’ at last ne’er a one o’ the priests ’id 
come at all, for they said it was all nonsense and 
shuperstition from first to last. Well, as that 
failed, all failed. So there we were with that ould 
damsel on us like a nightmare, atein’ as much as 
the three boys put together, an’ doin’ nothin’ all 
day long, only bitin’ and snarlin’ at every one of 
us. An’ then to the back o’ that was the loss o’ 
my poor colleen, one o’ the best childer that ever 
a poor man had. It seemed to me as if all the 
grief ever I had was nothin’ to the loss o’ her, for, 
as I said to myself, if she only died a natural death, 
an’ was laid beside her mother under the green sod, 
I wouldn’t feel the tithe o’ what I did. But to 
think of her bein’ taken away where no one belong¬ 
in’ to her could ever get speech o’ her, an’ where 
prayers or charity could do her no good! 

“ This was what troubled me most of all, an’ I 
could see by the boys an’ girls that their hearts 
were as heavy as my own, but somehow we couldn’t 
bring ourselves ever to speak of Ally to one another. 
For in the fields we were too near the unlucky 
forth, and in the house we daren’t for fear of the 
ould calliogh at the hob. But she knew our thoughts 
for all that. One winter’s evening, when I was 
sittin’ forenenst her, strivin’ to smoke away the 
sorrow that was like a load on my poor heart, she 
looks over at me with her fiery red eyes, an’ says 


254 SHAN DEMPSEY'S STORY. 

she, ‘ Shan Dempsey, sure it’s nothin’ but what 
you brought on yourself. Maybe you wouldn’t 
grieve so much now for your graceless son Tommy 
takin’ a tramp—eh, father ? ’ 

“ ‘ Don’t call me father, you ould—’ I stopped, 
for with all my anger I knew it wasn’t safe to vex 
her. 

“ ‘ Ha! ha! maybe I won’t,’ says she, with a 
laugh as if it came out of a barrel; ‘ if you choose 
to deny your own flesh an’ blood, it’s what I’ll never 
do, bad as you take me to be. Take it aisy, any¬ 
how; an’ above all, kape your tongue in bounds. I 
think you ought to be the last man to say an un¬ 
mannerly word to any one afther all that’s come 
an’ gone.’ 

“ With that she got up and stepped out into the 
darkness, an’ we didn’t see her again till bed-time. 
When we got her out we knelt down an’ said the 
Rosary, an’ when we were done we looked at one 
another, an’ we all said into ourselves the prayer 
that we daren’t say aloud, not knowin’ but the ould 
hag was athin hearin’ for all we couldn’t see her. 
It’s like the Mother o’ God heard the prayer of our 
sorrowful hearts that night, for things took a turn 
with us before many days went by. 

“ The month of October was cornin’ near an end, 
an’ myself and the childer were tryin’ hard to have 
the last of the praties in afore Holl’ Eve night. 
The weather was the finest that ever you seen for 
the season, an’ the nights were a’most as bright as 
the days on account of the clear moonlight that was 


MARY A. SAD LIE R. 


2 55 


in it. At last Holl’ Eve came, an’ we finished our 
job with the last o’ the daylight, jist in time for 
the big supper. Ochone ! but it was the sorrowful 
supper to me, for I was thinkin’ all the time it 
lasted o’ my poor darlin’ Ally, an’ whenever I 
looked across the table at the calliogh in the corner, 
every bit I ate was fit to choke me. But I couldn’t 
ate, though I tried hard, on account of the night it 
was. I got up at last and took my caubeen off o’ 
the peg, an’ was makin’ for the door. 

“ ‘ Why, Lord bless us, father,’ says my daughter 
Peggy, all of a fright, ‘ sure it’s not goin’ out you 
are on sich a night as this! ’ 

“‘Why wouldn’t he?’ says the thing in the 
corner, takin’ the word out o’ my mouth; ‘ what’s 
amiss with the night, Peggy Dempsey ? ’ 

“ ‘ Oh, nothin’ at all,’ says the poor girl, as 
white as a sheet; ‘ only we don’t like to see father 
leavin’ us to ourselves on a state night. Father, 
dear, don’t—don’t go out,’ an’ she most cryin’. 

“ Her sister and the boys were near as bad. 

“ ‘ Nonsense, childer,’ says I, mighty sharp, 
‘ don’t be makin’ fools o’ yourselves. I’ll be back 
in a hurry. I’ll only take a look at the night an’ 
come in again.’ 

“ Out I started, and when I seen the night was 
so fine I thought I’d take a stretch across the fields. 
I don’t know how it happened that I made for the 
ould forth, for I’m sure I didn’t intend it. But 
sure enough my head was full o’ my poor Ally, an’ 
I suppose my feet took me to ’ast where she was. 


256 


SHAN DEMPSEY'S STORY. 


Anyhow, before I knew, I found myself at the head 
of the whin field close to the forth, an’ when I 
looked up and seen where I was, my heart sank 
within me, for it was no place to be on Holl’ Eve 
night, of all nights in the year. The best I could 
do was to bless myself, an’ I done that in a great 
hurry. I was turnin’ my back on the rascally ould 
place, when, what do you think but I heard a noise, 
like the rockin’ of a cradle and a voice singin’ soft 
and low. 

“ With that my heart rose to my mouth, for I 
knew the song and the voice too, for all it sounded 
as if it was down, down in the earth. I was most 
wild with joy, an’ thought I wouldn’t care if the 
whole fairy troop was athin hearin’. So I gave a 
kind o’ little cry an’ was for dartin’ into the forth. 
But the voice from within spake out in a whisper— 
begorra I thought it was at my elbow: ‘ Wise men 
never set foot in Liscarron Forth on Holl’ Eve 
night. It ’id be no use to come in, anyhow. Go 
home and, the first chance you get, make the sign 
o’ the cross over them, you know. Home, home! 
there’s danger at hand.’ 

“ Well, childer, you may be sure I wasn’t long 
gettin’ home—not on account of the danger, for 
somehow I never thought of it, I was so overjoyed. 
But I wanted to do what I was bid in regard to the 
thing at home, for I knew well enough it was her 
was meant. I thought it was the easiest thing in 
life to do it, an’ the minute I got inside the door 
I was makin’ over to her, sayin’ that I wanted my 


MARY A. SADLIER. 


257 


pipe off the hob. My dear, she was on her feet in 
a jiffy, an’ says she: 

“ ‘ Keep your distance, ould man, or I’ll make 
you rue it the longest day you have to live. There’s 
your pipe in the jamb hole.’ 

“ Myself was so confounded, I didn’t well know 
what to do. At any rate, I was too much afeard 
of the hag to slight her warnin’. So I pacified her 
as well as I could, an’ took the cutty an’ began to 
fill it with tobacco, makin’ b’lieve I was laughin’ 
all the time. The childer was busy duckin’ for 
apples, so they didn’t take any notice of what 
passed. 

“ I sat in one corner all the evenin’ smokin’ my 
cutty an’ the ould hare forenenst me, as quiet as a 
lamb. But for all that, when she thought I wasn’t 
lookin’ she’d throw every eye at myself, that you’d 
think she wanted to pierce me through. Whiles I 
thought of makin’ a dart over at her and doin’ what 
I had to do. But the least move I made she was 
on the watch and I didn’t half like the look of her 
fiery red eyes. 

“ At last the tricks were all over, and the childer 
began to prepare for bed. The calliogh never 
stirred till the fire was raked, then up she got an’ 
waddled down the room. When she got to the 
door she half turned round and shook her finger at 
myself, with a look that made me shiver all 
over. 

“ ‘ Sure enough,’ thinks I, ‘ she knows what’s 
passin’ in my mind. I b’lieve I’ll not try it this 


258 SHAN DEMPSEY'S STORY. 

night, anyhow. I’ll take my time an’ come on her 
when she’s not thinkin’ of it.’ 

“ For two or three days my ould hare and myself 
kept watchin’ one another like two thieves. If I 
chanced to stir at all, even when I wasn’t thinkin’ 
of her, she set herself for me, with her two eyes 
shinin’ like a cat in the dark, an’ I declare to you 
I was afeard as much as to look at her. 

“ I was jist beginnin’ to lose all heart, thinkin’ 
I’d never get doin’ what was laid on me, when one 
night—of all nights in the year it was the third 
after Holl’ Eve—I was lyin’ aw T ake about the first 
cockcrow, thinkin’ of Ally an’ Tommy an’ the poor 
woman I lost. The clear frosty moon was shinin’ 
in through the window at the head o’ my bed, so 
that it was most as light as day. I happened to 
set my eye on the room door, an’ what does I see 
but it openin’ of itself, very soft and aisy. Well, 
sure enough I was a little afeard, but I couldn’t 
keep from gettin’ up on my elbow to see if there 
was anything in sight. Not a thing could I see, 
but a voice whispered at my very ear: ‘ Now’s 
your time! Now or never! ’ 

“ I didn’t ask who was in it, for the voice was 
my poor colleens, nor I wasn’t the bit daunted. 
All the fear was gone from me, an’ I felt so strong 
and courageous in myself that I thought I wouldn’t 
fear all the gentry * in the rath afore. 

“ I knew well enough what the colleen wanted, 

* This is one of the many conciliatory terms applied to the 
fairies by the country people. 


MARY A. SADLIER. 


259 


so up I gets an’ down with me to the room t’other 
side of the kitchen, where the calliogh lay. I found 
that door open before me, too; but still when I got 
fairly into the room I stopped. Fear came upon 
me again, an’ I felt the hair beginnin’ to rise on 
my head. Still I thought of the warnin’ I got, an’ 
I made a step or two to’ast the shakedown on the 
floor. Not a sound did I hear from it—not as 
much as a breath; an’ I couldn’t see it, because it 
was in a dark corner at the foot of the girl’s bed, 
where the moonlight didn’t reach it. 

“ ‘ Well,’ says I to myself, 4 it’s on me to do it 
—it’s for Ally’s sake, an’ with God’s help I will 
do it. Now or never was the word the colleen 
said. ’ 

44 With that I put up my hand an’ blessed myself, 
an’ made a dart at the bed, an’ made the sign o’ the 
cross over it, though my hand shook like an aspen 
leaf. Childer, dear, the cry that came from the 
ould hag, I’ll never forget to my dyin’ day. It 
was as if I drove a knife into her heart. 

“ ‘ O you black-hearted villain,’ says she, 4 you 
done it at last, but your luck ’ 11 be none the better 
for it. Take her now, an’ much good may she do 
you ! Ha! ha! ha! ’ The laugh was like the laugh 
of an evil spirit, an’ it rung all through the house, 
an’ I hard a noise like the whizzin’ of ever so many 
wings passin’ me by. I was most dead with fear, 
an’ couldn’t spake a word if it ’id save my life, but 
as God would have it the girls started up in a fright, 
and asked: 


26 o 


SHAN DEMPSEY'S STORY. 


“ ' In the name o’ goodness, what noise is that? 
Father, is it you or your wrath that’s in it? ’ 

“ * It’s me, childer, dear; don’t be afeard, but 
get up an’ light the candle.’ 

“ They did, an’ I tould them in the kitchen above 
what happened. Down we all went to the shake- 
down in the corner, an’ we could hardly b’lieve our 
eyes when we seen the purty face of our darlin’ 
Ally above the clothes, in place of the weazened 
ould calliogh that was in it at bed-time. At first 
we were goin’ to wake Ally, but she was sleepin’ 
so soundly that we thought it a pity. Well, we 
said to one another that we’d wait up till she’d 
waken, for you may be sure none of us could sleep, 
we were so overjoyed. 

“ So we got on our clothes, an’ the girls lit the 
fire, an’ we sat round it talkin’ in whispers of the 
joyful mornin’ we were goin’ to have of it. How 
many things Ally would have to tell us an’ we the 
same with her! We didn’t disturb the boys, for we 
meant to give them a grand surprise in the mornin’. 
Every now and then some of us stole down on tip¬ 
toe to take a look at Ally an’ see if she was stirrin’. 

“ But she wasn’t, nor even breathin’, though that 
didn’t frighten us, for didn’t we often hear of people 
brought back from the fairies that lay in a trance 
for hours an’ hours. At last the daylight came 
peepin’ into the little room. By degrees the dark 
corner where Ally lay was dark no longer, an’ her 
face was plain in our sight. But it was a dead face, 
childer! a dead face! white an’ cowld an’ stiff as 


MARY A. SAD LIRE. 


261 


marble. The purty brown' eyes never opened 
again, an’ the voice that was music to my ears at 
the dead of night was silent forevermore. 

“ The ould wasp didn’t go without leavin’ her 
sting behind in our broken hearts. It was aisy to 
see that death was there. Still we wouldn’t give 
up hopes that it might be a trance. So we kept 
Ally three days before we coffined her. There was 
no change on her, barrin’ for the worse; so we put 
her in her last house, an’ buried her in Kilmarky, 
longside of her mother. I thought my heart ’id 
break when I put the last shovelful of earth on 
her. But it didn’t, you see, childer, it didn’t. 
Well for me if it did.” 

There was dead silence for a few minutes after 
this. All were anxious to hear the sequel, but no 
one dared to break in on Shan’s solemn musing, as 
he sat looking dreamily at the blazing turf on the 
hearth. At last he cleared his throat several times, 
and rousing himself as if by an effort, he looked 
round on the group of expectant young faces, with 
a faint attempt at a smile. “ Death was newer to 
me then than it is now,” said poor Shan. “ I got 
well used to it athin the next three years, for by 
that time I hadn’t a child in the world, barrin’ 
Tommy, who was married an’ doin’ for himself. 
The boys and the girls dropped off one afther 
another—’deed they did, childer. They melted 
away before my eyes like snow off a ditch. The 
two girls died of decline, one of the boys of a 
pleurisy he took from a wettin’ after a hard day’s 


262 


SHAN DEMPSEY'S STORY. 


work, an’ the other of a bad fever that was goin’ at 
the time.” 

“ Why, Shan, how did you live at all after them ?” 
cried one of the youthful listeners, a bright, manly 
boy, his big round eyes dilated with wonder. 

“ Now, will you b’lieve what I’m goin’ to tell 
you, childer, ” said Shan, with unusual solemnity, 
“ I didn’t feel half as bad about any of them as I 
did about Ally. For all the others had the rites of 
the Church afore their death, glory be to God, an’ 
I knew that their time was come, an’ that their 
Maker was talcin’ them to Himself, where I’d soon 
be. Still I was lonesome enough, you may be sure, 
especially when the last one went, my youngest 
boy, an’ I found myself alone in the house. 

‘ ‘ I might have been far worse. Only a day or two 
after poor Hugh’s funeral Tommy came out to see 
me, an’ brought me lots of tobacco an’ tay an’ 
sugar. He tould me that if I wished, himself an’ 
Jenny—that was his wife—’id come and live with 
me as soon as ever I liked. He said it wouldn’t 
answer him so well, on account of business; but still 
an’ all, they’d do it if I wanted, for that Jenny’s 
eyes had never dried since Hugh’s death, thinkin’ 
of how lonesome and desolate the ould man must be. 

“ ‘ An’ you know, father,’ he added, ‘ she’s as 
good a servant as ever laid down two hands, for she 
lived three years with the mistress athin before we 
were married. So she’ll give you a good bit and 
sup, an’ kape you clean and comfortable. Faith 
she will, father; she’s just the girl can do it.’ 


MARY A. SADLIER. 


263 


“ Well, childer! myself can’t tell you how over¬ 
joyed I was to find so much nature in Tommy and 
his wife, an’ to think that I’d have them for com¬ 
pany an’ to take some of the toil of the farm off 
my hands. ’Deed I could hardly have been better 
pleased if some of the childer were given back to 
me from the grave. An’ it was good cause I had 
to be joyful. For afther Tommy and the wife came 
home to me I had the life of a lord, a body might 
say. 

“ Sich a son and sich a daughter-in-law as I had 
couldn’t be found anywhere. Tommy had left off 
his wild tricks altogether, barrin’ the bit o’ fun that 
was in him. That I didn’t want him to get rid of, 
for it kep’ myself alive. My dears, he was as sensi¬ 
ble as a judge an’ never said a word agin religion 
as he used to do, an’ that pleased me best of all. 
He was away from us on the coach about half his 
time, but when he was at home I tell you he worked 
well. 

“ As for Jenny, if she was my own born child 
she couldn’t have done more for me than what she 
did. Not a hard turn of work she’d let me do— 
not so much as to bring in a creel of turf; though I 
used to do it when her back was turned, for I was 
strong enough at the time, an’ I’d rayther do it 
than see her doin’ it. 

“ Not but what she was abler than I was, for, you 
see, she was a fine, strappin’ woman, with every leg 
an’ arm on her so big an’ so red that you’d wonder 
to see them. She was a likely girl to be sure, but 


264 


SHAN DEMPSEY'S STORY. 


there was enough o’ her to make two middlin’ peo¬ 
ple. I never had much gra , childer, for big 
women, but Jenny was so kind an’ good to me I 
couldn’t but like her. She never went to fair or 
market but she’d have the bit o’ tobacco home to 
myself, an’ maybe some other kindness to the back 
o’ that. 

** It was nothin’ with her an’ Tommy but ‘ father, 
dear,’ at every word, an’ neither of them would do 
the most triflin’ thing without askin’ my advice. 
Them were happy days, childer, dear,” said the 
old man with a heavy sigh; “ pity they didn’t last. 

“ The only thing that I didn’t like in my daughter- 
in-law was a way she had of makin’ little o’ my 
poor girls. To hear her talk you’d think they were 
both idle an’ wasteful, an’ had no care for their ould 
father. Well, this used to sting me to the very 
quick, an’ many a time I had a hot argument with 
Jenny about it. It was no use tellin’ her she was 
in the wrong, an’ I soon see that she didn’t want to 
be set right. At last I used to hould my tongue 
an’ let her talk on, though my very heart ’id be 
tearin’ asunder listenin’ to what I knew well was 
lies. Still, Jenny was so good to myself that I 
couldn’t for shame’s cause quarrel with her, an’ 
that’s the way we lived together for as much as half 
a year. 

“ I was never done tellin’ the neighbors all round 
what a treasure of a daughter-in-law I had, an’ how 
much Tommy was changed for the better. Some 
o’ them seen with the same eyes I did myself, an’ 


MARY A. SAD LIE R. 


265 


they thought I was happy born. Far more o’ 
them used to shake their heads an’ say: 1 Wait a 
bit, Shan! the big woman didn’t take off her 
brogues yet.’ 

“ To be sure myself used to be a good bit put 
out with them forthrowin’ a slur on Jenny. Some¬ 
times, when they came out with worse than that, 
or said I was too soft for a man of my age, an’ that 
my eyes ’id be opened some fine mornin’, I’d take 
it ever so hot, an’ vow that I’d never darken their 
doors again as long as I lived. The very best friend 
I had in the world happened to have the very worst 
opinion of my son an’ daughter-in-law, an’ that 
grieved me more than all. I done all I could to 
convince him, but he was a dark, silent man, not 
aisy to move from his own notions. All I could 
say or do wouldn’t bring him to say a soft word o’ 
them, espaycially Jenny. 

“ At last he called her a big ‘ stag ’ up to my 
very face, an’ I couldn’t stand that anyhow, so 
Tarry an’ I fairly quarrelled. For as good as three 
months we never opened our lips to one another, 
more than biddin’ the time o’ day, if we chanced to 
meet. ’Deed it was ill our comin’s, too, to fall 
out, for Tarry an’ me were no less than double 
gossips. 

“ To make a long story short, childer, one win¬ 
ter’s evenin’ about a month or two after my quarrel 
with Tarry Reilly, Jenny was down in the room 
doin’ somethin’, an’ Tommy an’ me were settin’ 
above in the kitchen on either side of the hob. 


2 66 


SHAN DEMPSEY'S STORY. 


“ ‘ Father,’ says Tommy, ‘I’m goin’ to say some¬ 
thin’ to you on a little matter o’ business, but mind 
if you don’t like what I have to say, tell me so at 
onst, and the thing is ended.’ 

“ ‘ Well, let me hear the word, anyhow, Tommy,’ 
says I, lookin’ over at him. 

“ ‘ I will,’ says, he, ‘ but you must come over 
near me, for I don’t want the woman below to hear 
me. Do you know what came into my head last 
night, as I was sittin’ on the back seat o’ the coach 
an’ it goin’ like a bird flyin’ ? ’ 

“ ‘ Why, then, how would I know, Tommy ? 
What was it, avick ? ’ 

“ ‘ I was thinkin’ that the care of the little spot 
o’ ground must be too much for any man at your 
time of life, with sich a heavy load of trouble on 
you into the bargain. Says I to myself, wouldn’t 
it be a good plan now if he’d make the house an’ 
place over to me, an’ let me give up this stravagin’ 
way of life onst for all, an’ stay at home an’ mind 
it. My father then could have a little rest in his 
ould days.’ 

“ With that up comes Jenny from the room an’ 
say she: 

“ * What’s that you’re sayin’ to the ould man* 
Tommy ? If it’s in regard to him givin’ up the bit 
o’ ground it’s what I’ll never consent to. He’d 
find it quare now in the end of his days to be on 
your floor or mine. Not a word, now, Tommy, 
not a word. I know what you’re going to say, 
aroon; an’ to be sure it ’id still be his own floor he’d 


MARY A. SADLIER. 


267 


be on when he’d be on ours. I know that as well 
as you, Tommy, but the ould man doesn’t know it. 
He’d be afeard—and small blame to him for that 
same—that he’d live to rue it. We’re all well con¬ 
tented now, an’ if you take that situation that was 
offered you, Tommy,’—I chanced to look up at 
Jenny, an’ if my eyes didn’t decaive me, she winked 
at Tommy— * if you do, you know, the ould man 
can get plenty to come an’ kape house for him. So 
I tell you, again, don’t think of sich a thing as him 
givin’ up the place to you.’ 

“ Now myself was always aisy led—too aisy, as 
poor Molshy—the heavens be her bed !—often tould 
me. At first I thought I wouldn’t do what Tommy 
wanted, if he made a king o’ me. But when I seen 
Jenny, as I b’lieved, so much agin what was for 
their own good, on my account, an’ espaycially 
when she made mention of the situation that Tommy 
could get, I began to ask myself what would I do 
at all if they left me again. Sure there could be 
no harm in it afther all, for wouldn’t I have aisier 
times and a good bit an’ sup, as I had ever since 
they came here, and besides, they’d be sure to stay 
then. There was another notion in my head, too, 
an’ out it came first. 

“ ‘ I’ll do it,’ says I, dashin’ the ashes out o’ my 
pipe on the hob, ‘ I’ll do it, Tommy, if it was only 
to spite Tarry Reilly.’ 

“ ‘ How is that, father ? ’ says Tommy, with his 
eyes an’ mouth wide open. 

“ ‘ Oh, never mind,’ says I, ‘ that’s none o’ your 


268 


SHAN DEMPSEY'S STORY. 


business. I’m obleeged to Jenny for her good 
wishes in regard to me, but it’s not her advice we’ll 
take this time. We’ll go into town the morrow, if 
God spares us, an’ get ould Douglas to make out 
the writin’.’ 

44 And so we did, childer,” said Shan, with 
rueful gravity. “ We went in on the edge o’ our 
feet, Tommy an’ me. I made the house an’ place 
over to him. The scrivener wanted me to put in 
a clause that I’d have my livin’ out o’ it all my 
days, but I wouldn’t hear o’ sich a thing. So all I 
had in the world was made over to my son Tommy. 
Sure myself thought it a fine thing to get the care 
o’ it off my shoulders. 

44 For about a week or so everything went on 
well, an’ I seen no change worth spakin’ of. When 
Jenny came home from the first market she was 
out, I got a little glimpse of what was in store for 
me. She brought me no tobacco, an’ at first I 
thought she had forgot it. So I asked her for it, 
an’ its what you’d think she’d bite the nose off me. 

4 4 4 Where would I get tobacco for you?’ says 
she; 4 you gave me nothing to buy it.’ 

4 4 4 Why, Jenny, dear,’ says I, 4 didn’t I give 
you a half-a-crown the other day to get some for 
me ? You mind the day you went to Paddy Mar- 
key’s shop, you only brought me an ounce, an’ 
never gave me any change.’ 

4 4 4 How sharp we’re gettin’ all of a sudden!’ 
says she, mighty cross. 4 When you want tobacco, 
go an’ buy it; you’ve less to do than I have.’ 


MARY A. SADLIER. 


269 


‘ ‘ Well, childer, there came a wakeness over me 
so that I was ready to drop. I asked Jenny to give 
me a drink of water, an’ she made as if she didn’t 
hear me, an’ walked away with herself into the 
room. So I had to do without the water, an’ I got 
waker and waker every minute till I thought I was 
goin’ to die. I didn’t. God had greater trials in 
store for me, blessed be His name! It ’id be too 
long to tell you the treatment I got afther that from 
both Tommy and the wife. The good cup o’ tay, 
the smoke o’ tobacco, an’ all the good eatin’ an’ 
drinkin’ went from me by degrees. The hardest 
turns about the house were laid on me, till my very 
life was a burthen to me with sorrow an’ the height 
of hardship. 

“ The worst of it was that the neighbors had no 
pity on me. They all said it was my own fault, 
an’ that as I made my bed now I must lie. What 
do you think, but it was Tarry Reilly had the most 
compassion on me, afther all. When at last Jenny 
tould me one day to go an’ look for my share, as 
many a better man had done, an’ that they had 
enough to do to support themselves an' the child 
they had, it was to Tarry’s corner I went. Though 
I wouldn’t be a burthen on him an’ his, an’ took to 
the road as Jenny bid me, I was welcome to the 
best bit an’ sup they had, an’ a bed in the warmest 
corner, as often as I chose to go. 

“ But Tarry died some four or five years agone, 
an’, mavrone , but I lost the good friend when I lost 
him. The childer all make me welcome, to be 


270 


SHAN DEMPSEY'S STORY. 


sure; still, they can never be to me what their father 
was. For we were gossoons together, an’ grown 
men, ay! an’ ould men together too. We had a 
heart likin’ for one another, an’ when poverty an’ 
ould age, an’ worse than all, the unnatural treatment 
of my own flesh an’ blood, sent me on the shaugh- 
ran, I could never say I wanted a friend as long as 
Tarry lived. 

“ His death was another sore crush to me an’ a 
heavy loss, but I got over that, too, like all the 
rest, thanks be to God that never shuts one door 
on His poor creatures but He leaves another open. 
As for Tommy an’ his wife, I b’lieve they’re not 
much better off than I am. Though Tommy said 
he’d give up the coach when he got the farm, he 
never did for all that. The idle, lazy habits he got 
about that inn an’ them horses he never got over, 
an’ never will. They have a scrawl of young childer 
about them, so that Jenny can’t get much out. n 
S o between one thing an’ another, nothin’ seems to 
go right with them. The farm is so little use to 
them that they might as well not have it. 

“ So, you see, childer, they didn’t make much 
of it afther turnin’ out the poor ould man that 
owned it. Sure, sure, that same’s no wonder, for 
when was a bad undutiful child known to prosper! 
If they do, it’s only for a while. For the curse of 
the evil-doer is upon the man or woman that shuts 
their heart agin the father or mother that God put 
over them.” 

Reader, this was Shan Dempsey’s story, and I 


MARY A. SAD LIER. 


271 


wish I could say that it ended here. The conclud¬ 
ing words of the broken-hearted father were fear¬ 
fully impressed on the minds of all who heard him 
by the sad fate of his unnatural son, who fell from 
the top of a coach a year or two after and broke his 
neck. He left his wife and children to beg their 
bread, as he had driven his father to do before. 
The old man did not long survive this most dread¬ 
ful of all his misfortunes, and in him we lost the 
last of our old story-tellers. May his doom be a 
warning to all foolishly indulgent parents, and his 
story be of interest to the readers. It belongs to 
the days 

“ When fairies were in fashion 
And the world was in its prime.” 





ANNA T. SADLIER. 


Anna Teresa Sadlier, daughter of Mrs James Sadlier, 
was born in Montreal, Canada, and was educated chiefly at 
Villa Maria, the principal Convent of the Congregation de 
Notre Dame, in that city. Like her mother, she has spent 
about equal portions of her life in New York and Montreal. 
She has been a frequent contributor in prose and verse to 
most of the American Catholic periodicals as well as to some 
English and Canadian ones. She has written a great many 
short stories. One of her earliest literary ventures was 
“Seven Years and Mair,” a novelette published by the 
Harpers in their Half Hour Series. Her principal original 
published works are “ Names that Live” and “Women of 
Catholicity,” two volumes of biography. On these Miss 




Sadlier spent much labor, but not unavailingly, for they 
possess no little value from a historical point of view. In 
two of the sketches which are distinctively American 
she drew largely from the Jesuit “Relations” and the 
Memoirs of Pere Olier, and she had the advantage of 
access to the annals of the Ursulines of Quebec and of 
the Congregation of Notre Dame of Montreal. Of her work 
it may be said as she says of the writings of Marie de 
1’ Incarnation, it possesses 11 rare excellence in a literary point 
of view, and as a historical record is unsurpassed for clear¬ 
ness and accuracy. The style is delicate and spirituelle, while 
forcible and consistent; the work is marked by a keenness 
of perception, a subtle grasp of points at issue, an attention 
to detail which is never wearisome, and a breadth of thought 
embracing the whole extent of what lies before it.’ ’ Her other 
books are ‘ ‘ Ethel Hamilton' ’ and 11 The King’s Page.’ ’ Her 
translations from the French and Italian include : “ Ubaldo 
and Irene,” “Mathilda of Canossa,” “Idols,” “The 
Monk’s Pardon,” “The Outlaw of Camargue,” “The 
Wonders of Lourdes,” “ The Old Chest, ” “ Consolations for 
the Afflicted,” “A Thought of the Sacred Heart for Every 
Day of the Year,” “ Words of St. Alphonsus,” “Lucille, 
or the Young Flower-Maker,” “The Two Brothers,” 
“ Augustine, or the Mysterious Beggar,” “Ivan, or The 
Leper’s Son,” “The Dumb Boy of Fribourg” and “The 
Recluse of Rambouillet.” 


/llMstress IRosamonfc TTrepor* 


LEAVES FROM THE JOURNAL OF THE ABOVE 
LADY , BEING A NARRATIVE OF CERTAIN 
EVENTS IN THE COLONIES OF MARYLAND. 

BY ANNA T. SADLIER. 

The Fifteenth Day of fnne , in the Year of Our 
Lord 1644.—I marvel much if my father did, in¬ 
deed, regret that day of St. Cecilia, in the year 
of 1633, upon which he set sail for these shores. 
My mother declared that he wept bitter tears on 
passing the castle of Yarmouth, overhung by 
November mists. Excessive the grief which could 
draw tears from eyes habitually cold and stern. 
Perchance time hath wrought a change. A youth¬ 
ful portrait showeth him, light of heart, buoyant 
of spirit, as Philip himself. 

Philip! It is a pretty name. How deeply did 
he carve it upon the oak! Above it mine—Rosa¬ 
mond! “ Rose of the World,” he said. How won¬ 
drous are those oaks, “ standing since the world 
was young!” as sayeth our dear, dear Father White. 
Yet I am wroth with him because of the confusion 
into which he threw me at table yester e’en. 

275 


276 MIS TRESS ROSAMOND TREVOR. 

“ If God and my superiors so will,” he said, li I 
shall stay yet awhile at St. Mary’s. I, who chris¬ 
tened Mistress Rosamond, and have otherwise min¬ 
istered unto her, must needs officiate upon a certain 
happy occasion. What say you, Philip ? ” 

“ In truth, your Reverence,” began Philip. 

But the dessert being ended, I fled, first curtsy¬ 
ing to his Reverence and to my father. 

My father, methought, looked graver than his 
wont. This jesting recalleth, perchance, that it was 
Father White who married him in England, and 
christened me some eight years before the depar¬ 
ture for these countries. Hence in my eighteenth 
year I take this journal for my confidante, recording 
the petty events of my daily life. How solemn the 
thought of my beauteous mother, dead long since! 
Often do I stand before her picture painted in wed¬ 
ding finery. Her eyes would seem to question that 
adventurous, hazardous future into which she was 
going unawares. Dare I look forward? Shall the 
years, too, transform my Philip? But, no—the 
thought is monstrous. 

His countenance becomes illumined as he dis¬ 
courses with Father White upon the conversion of 
these pagan Indians. I am, in sooth, more in 
terror of these hideous, painted beings, notably the 
Susquehannas, than I am solicitous for their souls. 
This is paltry. Even Philip hath so declared it. 
What noble plans he has against the time he shall 
have made his fortune. I must be worthy of these 
noble souls, amongst whom my lot is cast. I must 


ANNA T. SAD LIER. 


277 


aid in this holy work of conversion. Yet I trem¬ 
ble at sight of these grim chiefs, streaked with red 
and yellow, feathers upon their head, and a fish of 
copper or other metal upoa their brow. It is sad 
to reflect that these beings, created by the most 
high God, should worship corn and fire, and invoke 
an evil spirit whom they call Ochre. At least I 
can pray for them. 

The Twenty-seventh Day of the Month of fnne. 
—At eighteen should not one be grave and circum¬ 
spect ? Yet have I confession of folly to make. 
Last night a ball was given by his Excellency, 
Governor Leonard Calvert. It was surpassing 
beautiful. Gay uniforms, rich costumes. Those 
splendid gentlemen were most kind to me, no doubt 
for my father’s sake, who is in high repute amongst 
them. His Excellency spoke first of my father’s 
high services and next of my auburn ringlets and 
the pearl necklace, out of which he made a most 
graceful comparison. My heart, I confess with 
shame, was more pleasurably moved by these 
praises than betimes it is when Philip speaks of 
higher things. And if the blossom of vanity be 
sweet, the fruit thereof is exceeding bitter. Hence 
arose my first quarrel with Philip. Repeating to 
him certain fine phrases of one Captain Evelyn con¬ 
cerning my foot in its high-heeled slipper, Philip, 
flushing, laid his hand upon his sword. Unsuspect¬ 
ing I added, thinking to please him, the pretty 
compliments of our Governor. I further remarked 
that it was passing strange that a man of such fine 


278 


MISTRESS ROSAMOJVB TREVOR. 


parts as his Excellency should have grown old 
unmarried. 

“ Perchance he showeth therein his customary 
wisdom,” said Philip, in a tone which I had never 
before heard. “ Moreover my lord Leonard Cal¬ 
vert is not old, but still much in request as a 
cavalier.” 

“ He is most fair of speech,” I said; whereat 
Philip’s anger broke forth, and he accused me of 
being overfond of the commendations of strangers. 

“It is but a vain coquette who seeketh praise 
from all men,” he cried. 

Whereat my spirit being aroused, I retorted that 
I was no coquette, and that perchance he was too 
sparing of such commendations. At this moment 
Captain Evelyn offered me his hand for the dance. 
After which I spoke no more with Philip, but went 
home in much sadness and vexation of mind. 

This morning after Mass I received a brief note 
from Philip, worded thus: 

“ My Rose of the World, forgive me. Greatly 
have I misdemeaned myself in rudeness of speech 
to you. Write, I do beseech you, to assure me 
that your gentle spirit bears no malice.” 

I penned a tiny epistle and despatched it to 

The Most Honorable Philip Fairfax, 
Gentleman, at the Island of St. George . 

He is gone thither for a short period with some 
officers. He is a St. George himself, so brave, so 
excellent, and so zealous for the conversion of the 


ANNA T. SAD LIE R. 


*79 


savages. Last night I prayed to be worthy of him, 
and I laid the string of pearls at Our Lady’s feet. 

How thoughts jostle each other with scant cere¬ 
mony in one’s mind. Great was the divine good¬ 
ness in saving the vessels which brought thither my 
father and the other colonists, all men of fortune, 
high lineage, and professing our holy Catholic faith. 
It being the anniversary of St. Clement, the name 
of that Saint was given to the island where a land¬ 
ing was first effected. Possession was taken ‘‘ in 
the name of Our Saviour and for our Sovereign 
Lord the King of England.” 

After solemn Mass our own Father White with 
his companions, and aided by his Excellency Gov¬ 
ernor Calvert, took upon their shoulders a huge 
cross, which they carried to some distance and set 
up. The devout assemblage, kneeling, recited the 
Litanies of the Cross. Truly were they mindful of 
the saying of the Lord Cecil Baltimore, “ that his 
first and most important design, which should also 
be the aim of all who go to these shores, is not to 
think so much of planting fruits and trees in a land 
so fruitful, as of sowing the seeds of religion and 
piety.” 

Like a page from the annals of the first Christians 
was that celebration of the most blessed festival of 
the Annunciation, 1634. 

The Twenty-first Day of the Month of July, Pres¬ 
ent Year. —To-day I shall be busy. Gooseberries, 
plums, and mulberries have been gathered from the 
woods, to be made into compotes and confections of 


280 


MIS TRESS ROSAMOND TREVOR . 


many sorts. Adelaide has likewise a store of gums 
and balsams for the preparation of plasters, un¬ 
guents, and perfumes. She declares that I must be 
initiated into those arts which it behooves a woman 
to know before departing from my father’s house 
to govern a household elsewhere. When I argue 
that time presses not, she but rebukes me for my 
levity. 

“ When he whom the Lord hath appointed hath 
his dwelling in readiness, thither must you go,” she 
says, “ to do your appointed work.” 

She positively affrighteth me. She should have 
been a heretic of the colonies of New England— 
which indeed she hath been until converted by 
Father White. I opine that, being a Dissenter, 
she fled thither to escape persecution, but of this 
she speaks no word. Duty is her idol. Imagina¬ 
tion she scarce knows by name. How wroth was 
she that I should strive to catch the sunlight falling 
through the linden on the casement! I affected to 
believe it gold. Little knows she what romances I 
steal into unguent pots or seal up in pickle jars. 

Wondrous skilful is she in all household matters. 
But now she has brought to completion a wine 
thick as oil, concocted of berries from the neighbor¬ 
ing wood. What homilies she reads me as I stand 
by her side in the store-room! Philip may have 
cause to bless her if I profit by her teaching. Pre¬ 
paring these mulberries, I bethink me that Philip 
proposes to cultivate mulberry-trees for the feeding 
of silkworms near the manor he is building on 


ANNA T. SADLIER. 


281 


land bestowed by the king. He fancies it may 
become a lucrative industry. My father shakes his 
head, but who knows ? 

The Nineteenth Day of the Month of August .— 
After the middle day repast yesterday I stole into 
the woods adjoining. It was a veritable stealing, 
for Philip declares that wild beasts are in its depths, 
and Adelaide with sour looks cries out that it 
beseems not a maiden to go thus far unattended. 
Excellent soul! I would not for a kingdom’s wealth 
that she accompanied me with homilies and texts 
for each tree and clump of moss. She can flatter, 
this grim Adelaide, betimes. Last evening she 
declared to Philip that the Lord till His good time 
was reserving for the honored Master Fairfax the 
treasure of a good housewife. 

“ My claim,” cried I, “ rests upon little better 
foundation than some skill in peach conserv¬ 
ing.” 

“ Sweetness,” returned Philip, “ is a safe basis 
for a life’s happiness.” 

“ It may cloy,” I said gravely, “ as confections 
do ferment.” 

“ Nay, and the peaches be sound and sugar 
without alloy ? ” said Philip. Whereat I cried: 

“ To drop metaphor, what nature is without 
- alloy? Not mine, good sooth. I know not if 
bitterness would not best preserve me.” 

“ Sunshine purifies! ” laughed Philip. 

‘ ‘ Can its rays dispel the mists of vanity ? ” I said, 

for strong within me is the desire to seem fair. 


282 


MISTRESS ROSAMOND TREVOR. 


Looking upon my mother’s portrait, I would fain 
be as comely.” 

“ All brides are fair,” said Philip; “ so per¬ 
chance—” 

But I fled around the dairy wall, for Philip’s eyes 
were full of laughter. How sweetly the blackbird 
sang above our heads, my love and I. Peradven- 
ture it was the same bird I heard in the fir-trees. 
I love those sombre firs, with strange whisperings 
as of some we see not. In the silence and mystery 
of the woods one’s better self is uppermost. Per¬ 
chance the soul responds to the touch of solitude. 
Beautiful are the oaks, larches, and cypresses 
touched by the sun. Philip tells me that ships will 
be built some day from this same timber, and will 
help him to grow rich. He is rich enough, and how 
full of schemes for the hereafter! The very word 
makes me to sigh unreasonably. But Father White 
will endure no sighs. “ Joy, cheerfulness, hope are 
the Christian’s heritage,” he says. “ The shadow 
of the cross should banish other shadows.” 

The Fourteenth Day of the Month of September .— 
Philip hath been away for a fortnight on some 
military expedition with the Governor. Trouble is 
ever impending at Kent Island, from the wiles of 
one Master Claiborne, the evil genius of this colony. 
Kent Island is sixty miles hence—but a step to the 
voyages he has taken, declares my father. To me 
it seems so far. There is comfort in the reflection 
that thought can bridge unmeasured distance. On 
laying by my trinkets in the jewel case I bethought 


ANNA 7\ SAD LIED. 


283 


me of the hopes entertained by Philip and others, 
that gold and gems should be found in these 
countries. 

This belief is occasioned by the native men and 
women decking themselves with articles of un¬ 
wrought gold and strings of pearls—indubitable 
proof that such are found here. How proud shall 
I be of an ornament made from Philip’s mines! 
Such is the glory of a new country. One never 
knows. There is room for hope and endeavor. 

Twentieth Day of the Month of September. —Oh, 
joy! Philip hath returned. This evening Adelaide 
permitted me an hour’s walk with him in the elm 
avenue. My heart sang like a thrush, though our 
discourse was mostly of sober tone. I knew full 
well it was with no vulgar boastfulness that Philip, 
in speaking of the origin of these colonies, said, with 
the air of pride that so well becomes him: 

“ They were all gentlemen, Rosamond, in fortune 
and lineage; but they were more—they were con¬ 
fessors of the faith.” 

“ They came thither,” he added, “ to worship 
God in freedom and bring truth to these aborigines 
My lord Caecilius Baltimore might well exclaim 
that the English nation, renowned for so many 
ancient victories, never undertook anything more 
noble than this. For it is the work of Christ, the 
King of Glory.” 

“ A noble character that of my Lord Baltimore, 
our Pater Patrice f I said. 

“ No less noble is our Governor,” said Philip, 


284 MISTRESS ROSA MO XD TREVOR. 

with a smile, “ though he should write sonnets to 
auburn ringlets.’* . 

Philip, noting my confusion, turned to sober 
themes again. 

“ Here they have made asylum, not alone for 
those of our faith, but for the oppressed of ever)' 
creed and race. These shores have been made the 
refuge from intolerance, always through the good 
counsels of their Reverences.” 

“ Our good and gentle Jesuits,” I said, eagerly. 

11 Say rather our high-hearted and whole-souled 
Jesuits,” said Philip, who had been a student with 
the Society for years. 11 You will join me in the 
sentiment, sweetheart, God bless the Jesuits; for 
what should these poor colonies of Maryland have 
been without them ? ” 

44 From my heart, Philip, God’s blessing on the 
Jesuits!” 

We fell to discussing the incidents which befell 
“ The Ark” and “ The Dove” on their voyage 
thither, accompanied for many miles upon the high 
seas by the good ship “ Dragon.” How the por¬ 
tentous sunfish gave token of the storm, during 
which ” the Dragon ” parted company with them 
and walked no more upon the deep. 

“ A brave sight must it have been,” I said, 
“ when those brave men knelt to receive holy 
absolution from the Fathers. After which, Father 
White, turning aside in prayer, besought the Divine 
Master to remember that for the honor of His 
name this expedition had set forth. Scarce was 


ANNA T. SADLIER. 


^5 

his prayer concluded when the storm ceased. How 
beautiful must have been the sunlight which fol¬ 
lowed ! 

“ Our exiled hearts recked little of beauty/’ said 
my father’s voice coldly and so suddenly that I 
started. “ We gave God thanks, in truth, but with 
the resolution of servants doing a Master’s will, 
thankful for sunlight, prepared to buffet storms. 
Child, you speak of what you know not. Better 
beseems you the knowledge of pasties and needle¬ 
work. Philip, lad, you may mar a promising house¬ 
wife. Let not a woman’s mind run riot on serious 
themes, or your pasties will be of lead and your 
hose unmended.” 

Cold and scornful as were tone and words, I knew 
they came not from the heart, which conceals its 
high purposes under such an exterior. My father 
hath had many a stern experience. When my 
father had left us Philip took my hand. 

“ Sweetheart,” he said, “ we men, though of rude 
exterior, sympathize more than might appear.” 

“ Alas for all womankind were it not so,” I said; 
“ sympathy is our life. Failing it, God’s grace 
alone keeps us from growing hard.” 

” Let sympathy and trust be our mutual aim,” 
said Philip, and solemnly we made the pledge. 

“ Good night, Rosamond.” 

” Good night, Philip.” 

Our voices died with the twitter from the nest in 
the laurel-tree which alone broke the stillness of 
coming night. Philip, watching till I had gained 


2 86 


MISTRESS ROSAMOND TREVOR. 


the stone steps, waved farewell. Adelaide, who 
had called me divers times from the casement, 
rebuked me, saying: 

11 The Lord loveth a prompt and cheerful spirit, 
quick to obey.” 

“ A cheerful spirit am I, Adelaide,” I said, 
full of happiness. 

“ The Lord keep you so,” said Adelaide. 

To which I responded heartily, “ Amen.” 

In the corridor I encountered my father. To 
my amazement he detained me. 

“ I grieve,” he said, “if I have broken in but 
harshly on thy pretty foolishness. Keep the spring 
while it is yours, lest winter come in dreariness 
excessive.” 

Never had I beheld him so moved, but at supper 
his countenance was once more impassive. 

“ At eighteen one is of necessity an egotist,” he 
said to Master Gerard, who sat beside him; “ for 
women this feeling perchance hinders them from 
meddling in concerns beyond them.” 

Perchance I am an egotist in my love and happi¬ 
ness. Our Lady guard me from the fault. 

Twenty-sixth Day of the Month of September .— 
Sympathy is founded on a true understanding. 
Therefore do I make such study of the history of 
these countries as enables me to enter into Philip’s 
feelings. From a manuscript loaned me by Father 
White, I learned that the most noble George, 
Baron Baltimore, sought in the colony of Virginia 
asylum for those of his faith. So sorry was his 


ANNA T. SADLIER. 


287 


reception, that he was fain to turn northwards to the 
Bay of Chesapeake. An oath was tendered him 
denying the spiritual supremacy of the Pope, which 
that brave gentleman rejected with scorn. He 
procured grants from the king, and set about the 
work of colonizing. But it was his son, the Lord 
Caecilius, who completed such arrangements, and 
sent thither the Most Honorable Leonard Calvert, 
with his brother George, with Masters Hawley and 
Cornwallis, and many more brave spirits, guided by 
three Fathers of the Company of Jesus. 

No human creature was wronged by the advent 
of these worthy pioneers. The savages were most 
fairly compensated for their lands, from which they 
had previously resolved to depart, in terror of the 
formidable Susquehannas. When the great chief 
Archihu heard from Fathers White and Altham of 
their mission of peace, he said: 

“It is well. We will eat at the same table. 
My people shall hunt for you, and we shall have all 
things in common.” 

In our settlement of St. Mary's, one mile’s dis¬ 
tance from the river of the Potomac, each man 
was accounted free to worship God as he desired. 
Error was tolerated side by side with truth, as chaff 
amongst the wheat, God winnowing in His own 
good time. 

So this Maryland had its origin in peace and good 
will to all men. 

The Twenty-eighth Day of September .—We sat at 
dinner to-day to the number of forty, a somewhat 


288 


MISTRESS ROSAMOND TREVOR. 


motley assemblage. His Excellency gave me his 
hand to the dinner-table, uttering many pleasant 
speeches during the repast. Masters Cornwallis and 
Hawley and other friends were mingled with two 
Swedes from the Province of Pilaware or Delaware, 
a Quaker from the Hampshire colonies, three 
Anabaptists, and other Dissenters from the English 
of Virginia. All were of a certain distinction, hav¬ 
ing fled to our colonies through persecution. They 
are worthy of respect and sympathy, for though we 
hold them in error, they have suffered much for 
conscience. Alas! could our Catholic charity and 
toleration for our neighbor but spread through 
these countries! 

Near my father sat a huge man, discoursing in a 
big voice across the table to Father White, who 
regarded him with kindly interest. 

“ He is mayhap somewhat over-forward in relat¬ 
ing all that hath befallen him for conscience’ sake,” 
I whispered to Master Cornwallis, who sat upon 
my left. 

“ I discover in him a resemblance to the son of 
Saul,” said he, as he broke some filberts to lay upon 
my plate. 

“ Wherefore?” asked I, surprised; for scriptural 
quotation, save with such as Adelaide, is not in 
vogue amongst our people. 

Because he hath never trimmed his beard nor 
washed his garments.” 

I was forced to laugh, though I misliked the jest 
as savoring of discourtesy to a guest at our table. 


ANNA T. SADLIER. 


289 


For the laws of hospitality, observed with so much 
punctilio in our Maryland, are doubly binding where 
these exiles are concerned. Our Maryland gentle¬ 
men do vie with each other in good offices to them. 

The Second Day of the Month of October .—A 
day of mingled bitter and pleasant flavor. Father 
White departs to dwell amongst the Indian tribes 
one hundred and twenty miles distant. Father 
Fisher will be superior, aided by others from Eng¬ 
land. For, in addition to the conversion of the 
Indians, many heretics have renounced their errors 
and embraced the faith. Divers others attend our 
Catholic sermons. 

Adelaide and I proceeded early to the dwelling 
of the Fathers. She brought with her some excel¬ 
lent butter and a batch or two of bread, all of her 
making, with other delicacies. These shall be 
stored, with cheese, corn, beans, and flour, in a 
small chest. Another shall contain essentials for 
the Mass, and holy water for Baptism. The mis¬ 
sionaries go provided, too, with trifling objects, 
such as bells, needles, combs, to please the natives. 
I laughed heartily, picturing those great, solemn 
chiefs, whom I so dreaded, receiving with pleasure 
these infantile gifts. Adelaide would have been 
scandalized at my levity had not Father White 
joined heartily in my mirth. He likewise showed 
me a tent to serve as sleeping-place, and a table to 
be an altar. I shuddered as I thought of the perils 
to which this beloved friend would be exposed. 
Adelaide having not yet completed her prepara- 


290 


MIS TRESS ROSA MOND TRE VOR. 


tions, and my father being absent from home, we 
remained to supper, Adelaide attending me as I 
drank my tea from a coarse earthen cup. To her 
chagrin I performed a like office for her. 

Philip came later to make his farewells to Father 
White. How delightful the half-hour we spent in 
the study, though my heart was heavy at thought 
of our dear Father’s departure! But sorrow cannot 
last in his presence: he smiles it away. He said 
beautiful things to Philip and me of our future 
lives and of the good we might accomplish in these 
colonies. The windows were open, for the air was 
warm, and the light of the moon poured in, forming 
a halo around that fine head as he spoke. 

M I shall be bodily amongst you often,” he said, 
“ as ever in spirit. My ministry will necessitate 
visits to St. Mary’s. If duty permits, in due season 
I shall be here to give Rosamond to you, Philip. 
At your side she will play the part of one of those 
bright spirits whose feast we keep to-day. And 
with happy confidence I shall know, Philip, that 
you are worthy of the trust.” 

After a time Philip inquired as to the reports 
concerning the chief Tayac, for it was to his 
country that Father White was bound. The latter 
replied that, as far as human judgment can be 
trusted in such matters, the tale was worthy of 
credence. 

“ Tayac was vouchsafed a dream, which has con¬ 
duced to his conversion,” he said. “ In it he 
beheld Father Gravener and my unworthy self, no 


ANNA T. SAD LIE R. 


291 


doubt as superior of our house. Both were in com¬ 
pany with a stranger of rare beauty, clad in snow- 
white garments.” 

We fell to talking of a similar vision vouchsafed 
to one Unwanno, who beheld the selfsame Fathers, 
and heard a voice declaring that they loved the 
tribes and would bring them blessings. 

44 Who can inquire into the mysteries of the 
Most High ?” said Father White, looking towards 
the moonlit sky as for solution of the problem. 
44 Who dare say whether such things be His manifes¬ 
tation or a trick of the senses?” 

Our minds were diverted by the appearance of 
the other Fathers, all of whom joined with Father 
White and ourselves in jest and laughter—a rebuke 
to. all the Puritanism of the world. 

As Philip and I went homeward, saddened and 
yet calmed by the influence of that happy presence 
we had left, the moon shone exceeding bright upon 
the distant Potomac—Altomeck the savages style 
it; the Fathers have rechristened it St. Mary’s. 
The islands which they met they named for Our 
Lady, St. Clement, St. Catherine, St. Cecilia, St. 
George. The promontory jutting into the Potomac 
was christened St. Michael. As the descending 
sun of evening falls thereon, one might fancy that 
mighty spirit standing there, clad in shining armor. 

The Tenth Day of the Month of October .—Our 
interest—that is, Philip’s and mine—had been awak¬ 
ened of late in one employed as my father's secre¬ 
tary. Philip declares that, my father consenting, 


292 MISTRESS ROSAMOND TREVOR. 

this Master Gerard shall be overseer of the new 
domain. A sad story, but great grace hath com¬ 
pensated him for much evil. He is of gentle birth 
and breeding. In England he squandered a for¬ 
tune. Adelaide compares him to the prodigal son. 

“ He hath spent his substance in riotous living/' 
she says, “ wherefore the Lord afflicted him. For 
the riches of the unjust shall be dried as a river.” 

However it be, he was constrained to sell himself 
into bondage amongst the English of Virginia. He 
was ransomed by the Fathers and afterwards became 
a Catholic. So great is his fervor that it edifies 
all who observe him, especially during Mass. His 
countenance is sad, but uncommon peaceful. Per¬ 
chance is he happier than in prosperous days, though 
it is sad to be severed from home and kindred. 
He has much skill in music, and is an adept at arms. 
Amongst our serving people are two likewise deliv¬ 
ered from bondage and professing the Catholic faith. 
Adelaide treats them with much respect as “ the 
Lord’s freedmen.” 

Fifth Day of November .—Ill tidings have come. 
Father Gravener, having had a relapse of fever, has 
perished amongst the Indians. I pray earnestly for 
his soul. God grant him sweet rest after his toils 
for the kingdom of God. Father White is likewise 
stricken with that pestilent disease, but is in a way 
to recovery. How deplorable, when the Indian 
harvest fields lie so white! 

Perchance it is not yet God’s time. Blessed 
be His name,” observed Father Fisher tranquilly. 


ANNA T. SAD LIER. 


293 


First Day of December. —Little have I said in 
these pages of troubles with the neighboring colonies 
of Virginia, and with one Master Claiborne, before 
mentioned, who lays claim to the territory of Kent 
Island, despite the pleasure of our sovereign lord 
the king. My Lord Baltimore has had to chastise 
his insolence and quell disturbances arising through 
his arts. Religious rancor has of late arisen, and 
upon this blessed soil, which we of the Catholic 
faith would have made free to all, must ourselves 
suffer the bitterness of persecution. Rumors of 
trouble are rife. Peace has been the calm before a 
storm. My father looks disturbed. Father White 
is visiting St. Mary’s—welcome as the dove to the 
ark. 

Second Day of the Month of December .—At a late 
hour Fathers White and Fisher arrived, proceeding 
to my father’s study. I marvelled at so late a visit. 
Their Reverences departed speedily, engaged in 
anxious converse with my father, even to the very 
door. He has ridden forth, though it be close upon 
midnight. I am full of forebodings. 

Fifth Day of the Month of December. —Early on 
the third day of the present month Philip brought 
tidings that, after an attack upon St. Mary’s by the 
colonists of Virginia, our Governor and others had 
surrendered themselves upon conditions which were 
already violated. Three brave gentlemen have 
already suffered death. My father is at large, 
though he was in attendance upon the Governor. 
Philip rode away with Master Gerard. We have 


294 


M/S TRESS ROSAMOND TREVOR. 


passed a day of terror and suspense. As the hour 
of ten struck from the timepiece in the hall, the 
sound of galloping hoofs reached us. Each nerve 
within me vibrated. My senses were on the alert 
to a painful degree, my eyes starting from their 
sockets. 

44 Though armies assail me I shall not fear,’* 
muttered Adelaide, 44 for the Lord is my strength, 
my helper and deliverer.” 

She stood in the great hall, a lantern raised above 
her head. I, fearing the very shadows upon the 
armor or warlike implements, crept close to her 
side. The knocker was sounded with vehement 
haste. 

44 Deliver us, O Lord, from the hand of the 
wicked,” cried Adelaide, 44 and from our fear.” 

As the knocking continued, she opened a small 
panel in the door, saying: 

44 If the Lord hath sent you, make yourself 
known to His servants.” 

44 Open, open, without delay,” cried my father’s 
voice. 

The command was joyfully obeyed. He entered 
with Philip, Master Gerard, some servants, and two 
gentlemen closely muffled, whom I presently recog¬ 
nized as Fathers White and Fisher. Their coun¬ 
tenances of wondrous serenity were in strong con¬ 
trast to the flushed and wrathful ones of my father 
and the others. 

44 Adelaide,” said my father, 44 prepare instantly 
such food as may be taken upon a journey. Master 


anna t. sad lie r . 


295 


Gerard, see that horses be in readiness. Your 
Reverences be seated and partake of some refresh¬ 
ment. In an hour’s time we ride for our lives to 
the frontier.” 

We must indeed go into hiding for the mo¬ 
ment,” said Father White, “ but personal consid¬ 
erations cannot permit us to be long absent from 
our work.” He added smilingly, “ Nor must we 
needlessly terrify our little Rosamond. With our 
dear Lord’s aid all will be well, and for His greater 
glory. ” 

Their Reverences riding forth supperless, Father 
White still feeble from fever, were accompanied by 
my father. He peremptorily ordered Philip and 
Master Gerard to remain. 

“ Need may arise,” he said; i( the town is in sore 
confusion. The dwellings of all Catholics are 
menaced. ” 

I wrung my hands in anguish of spirit, whilst 
Philip secured and barricaded the house—that 
peaceful dwelling which my father had erected on 
coming to the colony. 

“ Alas! ” thought I, “ when we heard of like 
doings in neighboring colonies, how little did we 
guess it would so soon be our own case!” 

Philip having completed arrangements, counselled 
me to seek shelter in a retired part of the house. 

“ In the hour of peril you shall not banish me,” 
I said. 

il I am but a poor commander if so youthful a 
soldier proves contumacious,” said Philip, smiling. 


296 MIS TRESS ROSAMOND TREVOR. 

“ Command what you will, so that it be not to 
leave you,” I said; “ my place is at your side now 
and forever.” 

I had never spoken so boldly. I read in Philip’s 
face his pleasure at my words, though Adelaide 
reproved me for overforwardness of speech. 

Philip beguiled the time by relating the events 
of the evening. Sad havoc had been wrought with 
the Fathers’ dwelling. Their furniture and books 
had been destroyed. 

When the moment had come for flight, an attack 
was made by some Catholic gentlemen at the 
farthest side of the house, to divert the attention of 
the assailants. Meanwhile my father and Philip 
stood ready with horses for the Fathers to mount. 
The feint being unsuccessful, a certain number of 
the enemy remaining before the dwelling, Master 
Gerard stationed himself in the doorway, crying 
that he desired to encounter the caitiff crew single- 
handed. Having thus drawn attention upon him¬ 
self, the Fathers were enabled to depart, though 
with much reluctance. Philip declared that they 
feared lest life or limb should be lost for their pres¬ 
ervation. My father at length threatened to con¬ 
vey them thence by force. 

The mob meanwhile clamored against “ impos¬ 
tors,” “ false teachers,” yet how deeply are these 
very heretics beholden to these ecclesiastics; and as 
to their meddling with state concerns, often have I 
heard my father relate that Fathers White and 
Altham refused a seat in the first colonial assembly 


ANNA T. SADLIER. 


297 


of Maryland, praying to be excused from taking 
part in secular affairs. 

How base, how cruel the ingratitude!” cried I. 

“ It is infamous,” said Philip; “ I shall shake the 
dust of our Maryland from my feet if she do not 
teach them a lesson.” 

The Lord hath permitted that His anointed 
be tried in the crucible, as gold in the fire,” said 
Adelaide. Her cheeks were wet with the first tears 
I had ever seen there. I could not refrain from 
embracing her, to her confusion, in presence of the 
honored Master Fairfax. 

I pray you, hold my young lady excused,” she 
said; “ her heart is ever greater than her judgment.” 

“ A small fault in a prospective bride,” said 
Philip. 

But I was too heavy-hearted to note his speech 
or the smile accompanying it. 

Sounds of strife began to reach us with terrify¬ 
ing distinctness. Our discourse ceased, save for 
whispered conferences between Philip and Master 
Gerard, who, heavily armed, grimly awaited events. 
How careworn his countenance beside the open, 
joyous one of Philip! Sad and stern his expres¬ 
sion. This came to me afterwards. I could but 
sit with clasped hands, praying silently. Adelaide 
in a loud voice repeated psalms and versiclfcs from 
Holy Writ. During that harrowing night musket- 
shots were fired about our dwelling, with shouts 
and maledictions: 

“ Down with the traitor, the friend of lying 


298 MISTRESS ROSAMOND TREVOR. 

priests! Burn his dwelling. Perchance the pesti¬ 
lent Mass-mongers are within.” 

Thundering knocks sounded upon the door, with 
cries of “ Open, or we burst it! 

“ That oak was not grown in Virginia, caitiffs! ” 
cried Master Gerard through a loophole, wherein 
he had placed his musket. A storm of blows fell 
upon the door. Glass was shivered by musket- 
shots. I sat with covered face, praying, oh, how 
earnestly! 

Master Gerard and Philip used their rifles with 
good effect, as did the servants above; but as the 
cries of “ Burn the nest of traitors! ” became more 
frequent, Philip resolved to make terms with those 
outside. To this was Master Gerard resolutely 
opposed, his blood being up. 

“ You shall enter and search,” said Philip,— 
“ no priests are here,—provided you commit no 
violence.” 

“ No dictation of terms,” said a voice. 

“ Then stay without,” cried Master Gerard furi¬ 
ously, “ and let incendiaries look to it. Herein 
are soldiers who will open so deadly a fire that 
Virginia shall be filled with widows.” 

Terms were, however, agreed upon, Philip recall¬ 
ing my father’s great credit with our lord the king, 
which was the reason the house had not been sooner 
fired. During the search, which Philip conducted 
in person, four stragglers, evidently intoxicated, 
reached the distant room whither Adelaide and I 
had retired. I should have swooned away in fright, 


ANNA T. SAD LIE R. 


299 


for, despite the expostulations of Adelaide, they 
were determined to venture upon obtrusive pleas¬ 
antries with me. Suddenly a powerful blow struck 
down the foremost ruffian. Master Gerard, of 
deadly pallor, his eyes aglow with anger, cried: 

“You hounds, had I a whip at hand, I should 
teach you how a gentleman keeps his kennels.” In 
an instant he was at bay against four brutal assail¬ 
ants. Adelaide drew me forcibly away. Later I 
saw her tying up an ugly wound in my defender’s 
arm. He only smiled when I wept at sight of the 
thrust, saying with a courtier’s grace: 

** In some causes wounds are sweet.” 

By morning his manners had resumed their 
wonted quietude. None could guess how brave, 
how impetuous he is. 

The Nineteenth Day of the Month of December .— 
Our beloved Fathers have contrived to get over the 
frontier, where they have taken shelter in a species 
of cistern. Philip and Master Gerard convey pro¬ 
visions to them by night, and are loud in commen¬ 
dation of their courage and patience. Now it is a 
jest at their sorry shelter or foodless state, which 
often continues for hours. Even when they return 
to their missionary labors, the small sum sent for 
their maintenance being intercepted, they will have 
no guides through the trackless forests. Most griev¬ 
ous do they esteem it to have no wine for the Holy 
Sacrifice. 

My father declares that henceforth there will be 
no certainty of peace for persons of our faith. I 


300 MISTRESS ROSAMOND TREVOR. 

account it glorious to suffer in that cause, if God 
willeth. He can give strength to our weakness. 
Yet is my nature enamored of sweetness and light. 
Should a bird twitter in yon elm, or a rose burst 
into bloom in the garden, I should be filled with a 
thousand dreamy fancies. While winter lasts it is 
impossible. Therefore let me dwell upon reality. 

The Thirtieth Day of April in the Year of Our 
Lord 1645.—I have had no courage to write down 
my feelings or fancies since that grievous time 
when our dear and saintly Fathers while on an apos¬ 
tolic mission to the tribes were seized, loaded with 
irons, and sent over seas. This was done under 
an iniquitous law concerning “ Missionary Popish 
Priests.” My tears flow as I write; a word serves 
to awaken the grief and indignation of Philip and 
my father. I feel that we shall see our Father 
White in Maryland no more, even if he bears up 
under hardships and indignities. Alas that this 
should befall him upon that free soil, where his own 
wise counsels of forbearance and toleration did so 
happily prevail while Catholics were in the ascend¬ 
ant! God grant us grace to pray for our enemies. 

“ There is but one weapon to be employed— 
prayer,” was Father White’s last counsel to his 
friends. My Lord Baltimore is righteously indig¬ 
nant and, it is said, will seek redress at the throne. 
But it will not make good our loss. 

The Third Day of the Month of August .—Save 
for a disturbance upon St. Ignatius’ Day, peace has 
been unbroken. Our Catholic citizens did desire to 


ANNA T. SAD LIER. 


3 °i 


celebrate the patronal feast of the college by fire¬ 
works and discharge of artillery. A party of evil- 
disposed Englishmen from a neighboring fortalice 
attacked the dwellings of our Catholic gentry, much 
damage being done. Our own was once more 
defended by Philip, Master Gerard, and my father. 
My father received a wound in the sword arm, which 
being hastily dressed by Adelaide, he seized his 
weapon in his left hand and returned to the attack. 
Philip had like to have perished but for the timely 
intervention of Master Gerard, whom I shall always 
love. Surely never was home defended by more 
gallant gentlemen. 

The Eighth Day of September. Feast of Our 
Lady s Nativity. —Peace hath returned. All upon 
Kent Island have taken the oath of fealty to my 
Lord Baltimore, who has appointed Sir Robert 
Vaughn military governor there. Peace! how 
sweet after long disquiet! The sun lies upon the 
lawn, as a loving hand stretched in benediction over 
the spot, for sake of those who walked thereon, but 
shall walk this earth no more. These troubles in¬ 
clined my naturally light heart towards melancholy. 
Father White’s superiors have refused him permis¬ 
sion to return, despite his desire. How I should 
rejoice to see him stand once more, a venerable 
figure, in cassock and beads, under the oaks he loved 
so well! 

The Ninth Day of September .—In the dusk I 
could perceive the red roof of Philip’s house, soon 
to be mine. It is a solemn thought. I, Rosamond 


302 MISTRESS ROSAMOND TREVOR. 

Trevor, shall leave this home which has been mine 
since early childhood, and that before the festival 
of Christmas. To me all change is unutterably sad, 
though I must not let Philip divine my thoughts. I 
shall even look upon the brighter side. How won¬ 
drous it will be to come and go without hindrance 
from Adelaide, and to give my orders and have in 
safe keeping a bunch of keys. There is a strange 
fascination in that bit of roof outlined against the 
sky and shadowed by an elm. 

I shall miss old Adelaide, though she were severe 
betimes. And my father would seem to grow less 
stern. Yestere’en he laid a caressing hand upon 
my hair, saying that I grew like my mother. Father 
White declared that he “ was one of the noblest- 
hearted gentlemen in St. Mary’s.” Soon must I 
bid farewell to many a familiar spot: my bed of 
heart’s-ease, planted when I first saw Philip; the 
carnations that we tended together, the robin’s 
nest which he saved from destruction; and*the elm 
avenue, where Philip first spoke of love. Then there 
is the confection-room, where Adelaide taught me 
housewifery. It overlooks the stone court whence 
Philip used to peep at me bedabbled with flour, or 
anointed with the unguents I was engaged upon. 

Lastly, I shall say good-bye to my mother’s por¬ 
trait. I shall stand before it in my wedding-dress, 
with pearls about my throat. I shall look into her 
silent eyes, seeking to read her thoughts, and from 
the shadow of her presence go forth over the 
threshold into the new life. 


ANNA T. SADLIER. 


3°3 


Philip is approaching. How handsome and noble 
he is! My sad thoughts fly at his approach. I 
must put my whole heart into his hopes and aspira¬ 
tions to make them mine. How comical Adelaide 
looks with her cap askew upon her head as she 
gravely cites to Master Gerard, in yonder casement, 
a text against the pursuance of warfare as a profes¬ 
sion ! As if he could be other than a soldier! 

From that day ends the journal of Mistress Rosa¬ 
mond Trevor, but mention occurs of her at a 
banquet given to “ His Most Honorable Excel¬ 
lency,” Leonard Calvert, Governor of Maryland. 
At the head of the table presided the beautiful and 
gracious Mistress Fairfax, who had been of late 
given in marriage to the most honored gentleman 
Master Philip Fairfax. This was in the manor- 
house erected upon the lands granted in perpetuity 
to Master Fairfax by the king’s highness. 




/ 


JOHN TALBOT SMITH. 

Rev. John Talbot Smith is an original, forceful writer 
who has selected as the scene of his many stories the 
mountain towns bordering on Canada, with their rough, 
uncultivated men and women as his characters. No more 
picturesque people is to be found in New England and New 
York than the French Canadian with his happy disposition, 
his wife, a model of thrift inherited with her French blood, 
his large family, his church, and national feasts. Diametri¬ 
cally opposite to him in character and mode of life is his 
Irish-American neighbor, his enemy at first, but subsequently 










his friend and later his relative by marriage. From a long 
acquaintance with these people Father Smith has learned to 
know them intimately, not only from daily association, but 
through his priestly relations. He has studied them and 
describes them, their life and their surroundings, with won¬ 
derful fidelity. 

Father Smith was born at Saratoga, New York, in 1855. 
He went to the Christian Brothers’ school in Albany, and 
made his classical and seminary course at St. Michael’s 
College, with the Basilians at Toronto. He was ordained 
in 1881, and appointed curate in a little mission on Lake 
Champlain, where he laid in the backgrounds of romantic 
scenery and the characters to be found in his stories. In 
1883 he was made pastor in Rouse’s Point, and subsequently 
held an official office in the diocese of Ogdensburg. On 
the death of P. V. Hickey, the editdr and founder of 
The Catholic Review , Father Smith became editor of 
that paper, a position he filled for nearly three 
years; as a journalist he was masterful and brilliant, but 
perhaps too independent in his ideas and his expression of 
them. Since his retirement from journalism he has lived 
in New York as chaplain to the Sisters of Mercy on Madi¬ 
son Avenue, and has devoted himself entirely to literature 
and journalism. He contributes to the daily papers and to 
the magazines, and at regular intervals produces a volume 
of fiction or more serious matter. His published works are : 
“ A Woman of Culture,” “Solitary Island,” “ His Honor 
the Mayor,” “Saranac,” “The Prairie Boy,” “ History of 
the Diocese of Ogdensburg,” and “Our Seminaries,” an 
essay on the training of young men for the priesthood. 


Uhc Baron of GfoerubUBco. 


BY JOHN TALBOT SMITH. 

In some doubtful, untraced way history has left 
upon me the impression that a baron of the early 
ages when barons began to be was a hard, tyrannical, 
ignorant man, who drank great quantities of spirits, 
beat his wife and his daughters, was envious of his 
growing sons, had a few streaks of generosity in 
him, and, above all things, hated and oppressed the 
poor. Whether the ancient average of barons justi¬ 
fied this impression I have not yet had time to 
discover. So much that was history twenty years 
ago has since become fable, that he would be an im¬ 
prudent man who would venture to defend the his¬ 
torical impressions of his youth before examining 
the latest authorities; but I always acted on the 
impression when speaking or thinking of Mr. Turn- 
ham of Cherubusco, the principal citizen of our 
village, and the gracious friend who had appointed 
me, a struggling lawyer and a pugnacious Catholic, 
to the position of town-clerk. It was not a very 
high distinction, to be sure, to be principal citizen 
of Cherubusco—a hybrid, nondescript village on 
Lake Champlain ; but to the people who dwelt there 
307 


3°8 


THE BARON OF CHERUB US CO. 


it was a deeply interesting position, and had a con¬ 
siderable deal to do with their personal comfort, 
occasionally also with their material prosperity; and 
it was one reason why I looked upon my patron as 
a modern type of ancient baron that he made the 
common people of the town as miserable as possi¬ 
ble when the fit seized him, and sold them comfort 
at the price of a degrading vassalage. It would not 
be charitable to detail all the enormities, private 
and public, personal and distributive, which he prac¬ 
tised in a year. He was not such a monster as I 
considered an old-time baron. He drank spirits in 
quantity, and enjoyed an occasional “ toot,” as my 
neighbors name a period of intoxication, but it was 
not a matter of scandal for any one; he swore in his 
office, among his cronies, and promiscuously in the 
absence of children and clergymen; he had no 
religious belief of any definite character—in his own 
expressive language being a “ free nigger ”—and 
his morality was of a pattern with his religion, 
clouded, uncertain, wavering, leaving him no better 
than he should be; but he was the kindest, most 
indulgent householder that ever lived, was de¬ 
servedly loved by the members of his family, and 
had an amiable wife and rather handsome children, 
in spite of a discouraging personal appearance. For 
Turnham, briefly, had a stiff leg and a face all hair 
and spectacles. So much of his skin as was visible 
above the tide of glass and hair was either muddily 
pale or fiery with an erysipelous affection, always 
shaded by the wide brim of a homely felt hat. A 


JOHN TALBOT SMITH , 


309 


more malignant appearing face I had never seen; a 
fiercer expression no piratical pirate ever wore. As 
he walked the street, dragging his stiff leg after him 
like an evil genius or a familiar spirit, and bowed to 
the passing villagers, I interpreted the looks he gave 
them to mean, “ Be careful, now; you know me: 
at any minute I might cut the earth from under 
you ;” and the same look seemed to say to strangers, 
“ You don’t know me; but I’m a terror, and I 
might cut the solid earth from under you if you said 
a cross word.” He had cut happiness out of so 
many persons’ lives that my interpretation was 
reasonable, and the title of baron, so far as it repre¬ 
sented my idea, was clearly applicable to him. 

Still, barons are men in spite of their odd char¬ 
acteristics and noble title, and are as apt to cry 
when pinched as better men. Mr. Turnham had 
his good points. One of his best was the fancy he 
took for me; for this fancy, while not doing me 
much good, brought him much annoyance from his 
brother barons. It was urged against my appoint¬ 
ment that I was a Catholic, that I was too young, 
that I could not be trusted to keep business secrets 
from the priest, that better men wanted the posi¬ 
tion of town-clerk; to which objections he replied, 
with his malignant grin, that he loved Catholics 
more than hypocritical Protestants, that he hated 
old men, that no secrets were intrusted by him to 
any one, and that he didn’t care a button if Bishop 
Potter was after the office of town-clerk—no one 
should get it that year but me. By this declaration 


3 IQ 


THE BARON OF CHERUB US CO. 


he unflinchingly stood. Furthermore, he made me 
his confidant in most matters of business and poli¬ 
tics—a position which I, being a very young fool 
and having fifteen years before me in which to make 
up for present blunders, accepted with confidence 
and courage. Behold me, then, on a fine morning 
in the month of June, seated in confidential dis¬ 
course with my patron, our heels elevated in a 
fashion plainly intended to keep our brains from 
scattering, and he fairly glaring upon me for the 
opposition which I offered to his plans concerning 
the coming village election. 

“ So you don’t believe in buying votes,” said he. 

On principle ? Or are you one of these Young 
Men’s Christian Associations, that shout for C. S. 
Reform, in chorus, and in side streets, dark-night 
solos buy up all the votes they can git ? ” 

I omit the baron’s profanity. 

“ On principle,” I answered benignantly. “ It’s 
wrong. It’s against the constitution and the law. 
It’s un-American. It’s an injury to the poor fellows 
who are tempted. George Washington wouldn’t 
approve of it. Neither will I.” 

After sending the venerable Washington to a part 
of the other world in which the baron seemed to 
have a vested interest, judging from the authorita¬ 
tive way in which he assigned lots there, and glaring 
at me several moments, he said: 

“ Do you mean to hold that principle all your 
life?” 

I hope I shall,” I replied, with the proper 


JOHN TALBOT SMITH. 


311 

humility of manner and an interior conviction that 
hope was utterly crushed by certainty. I was only 
twenty-one. 

Then let me tell you,” said he viciously, 
“ you’ll never git a bigger office than town-clerk. 
You might as well git out now as wait till yer 
kicked out to make way for men that have purer 
principles. ” 

“ That’s good!” said I. “ I’ll wait till I’m 
kicked out, and it won’t be the men with purer 
principles that’ll do all the kicking.” 

“ And what do you propose to do at the elec¬ 
tion ?” irritably. 11 Sit ’round, an’ talk, an’ stare, 
an’ have old Whiting an’ Stacy an’ the rest of ’em 
askin’ what you’re doin’, and all the rest of 
it ?” 

“ Don’t mind me,” I said. “ Let me have my 
own way, and I’ll do as much work as the best man 
among ’em, in my own fashion. If they find any 
fault after election. I’ll resign.” 

“ Well, it’s a satisfaction that all Catholics are 
not so strict in their way of thinkin’.” 

” If they aren’t they ought to be. They’re not 
Catholics. It must be a satisfaction to you to see 
most Protestants acting as you do. I suppose you 
will have the usual whiskey-barrel on tap in this 
room for the poor Frenchmen and the thirsty gentry 
of the town. I can read the future of America in 
election whiskey.” 

He glared for a few minutes and closed the con¬ 
versation with a laugh, muttering some indistinct 


3 12 


THE BARON OF CHERUB US CO. 


thunders concerning papists, and flinging his books 
and papers through the room savagely. I lost 
myself presently in a sad meditation on vote-buying 
as a means of political promotion. There was little 
doubt of my inability to hold even so inferior a 
position as town-clerk long while my principles 
remained at variance with the universal practice of 
Cherubusco politicians. If Catholic morality were 
not quite so stern on that and some other points of 
political and business life, how rapid would be the 
rise of ambitious Catholic lawyers with a good stock 
of principle and little cash on hand! 

“ I think,” said Turnham after a time, “ you had 
better hint to Joe Miron—he’s a papist, you know 
—that I don’t like his talk around town. He’s 
restive. It looks as if he wanted to bolt the straight 
ticket.” 

“He has a right to bolt.” 

“ And if he does,” continued the baron, “ let 
him understand that he’ll get no more work in this 
town, if I can help it.” 

He has a big family,” I said, “ a good wife and 
five children. They are not the kind to be left to 
starve on account of a vote.” 

“ Just let him know how it will be,” he replied 
indifferently. “ They won’t starve, you kin bet, 
but they’ll suffer some trouble. That’s good for 
papists. It’s the only thing keeps the critters 
down.” 

Two persons entered the office in succession, 
transacted some business, and departed. One was 


JOHN TALBOT SMITH ,, 


m 


a feeble, sickly woman in rags pathetically clean, the 
other a nervous, well-dressed business man. 

“ Well, Henriette! Good-morning, Sol Dotler! 
Come to pay the rent, Henriette ? ”—he knew very 
well the day would never come when the poor 
woman would be able to pay it. “ Six months due 
to date—eighteen dollars. I’ll let you off for ten, 
seein’ it’s a hard time for the poor.” 

Henriette looked at the spectacles and whiskers, 
fumbled nervously with her rags, and began to 
tremble. 

1 ‘ The same old story,’’ he said, after she had made 
a few vain efforts to speak. “No money, not able 
to work! Well, let it go for this time, Henriette! 
I’ll make it up out o’ Sol Dotler.” 

The woman went out shedding grateful tears. 
The nervous business man cursed the baron in a 
friendly fashion, and was cursed in turn, as he asked 
for the note which he intended to take up that 
morning. It was a small sum, one hundred dollars, 
for the use of which for one month the baron re¬ 
ceived the sum of thirty-five dollars. 

“ Not a bad job,” he said to me a moment later. 
“ A little business o’ that sort would help you 
along, my boy, if you have a few hundreds to 
loan.” 

“ Thus runs the world away,” and a heavy heart 
carries the young Catholic who tries to run after it 
in our time, and I suppose in any time. He must 
strip himself of every principle of his faith, if he 
wishes to keep up with it, of love of his neighbor, 


314 THE BARON OF CHERUBUSCO , 

love of his country, and love of religion, carrying 
only in his gripsack the shirt of convenience and 
expediency, and the trunks and hose of pharisaical 
morality. So the baron had often told me; nor 
could I doubt his word after a thorough examination 
of his and the wardrobes of all the other barons of 
the country! The items mentioned were not always 
to be found in their entirety among these nobles, 
but I observed that when their destruction left them 
morally naked public opinion drove them either into 
retirement or into business in the city on a large 
scale. The baron, being a family man, still held 
his scanty wardrobe together by dint of much 
patching and darning, and with the help also of a 
class of clients whose leader and mouthpiece was 
just entering the office on the heels of the reflec¬ 
tions which had passed through my mind after the 
last remark of Mr. Turnham. 

He was a small man in working-clothes, wrinkled, 
rudely jointed, and old. His thick gray hair was 
cut straight across his neck by the domestic scissors. 
His whole appearance had the home-like finish 
peculiar to old brooms and well-used furniture; so 
that the natural dignity of his manner was more 
remarkable by contrast, and left an agreeable im¬ 
pression. His wrinkled face was weighted with an 
expression of sorrow. He bowed to us both in a 
grave way, and, turning to the baron, opened his 
mouth to speak, but the under-lip trembled so much 
that he sat down suddenly and covered his eyes 
with his hand to hide the tears that fairly spouted 


JOHN TALBOT SMITH, 315 

through his fingers. The baron’s face grew a shade 
paler at this sight. 

Dupuy,” said he, “ your boy’s dead.” 

“ An’ little gell, too,” moaned Dupuy. “ Bot’ 
die las’ night.” 

The baron started up with a groan, and hopped 
up and down a few times in real distress. He, too, 
was the father of boys and girls. 

“ It’s too bad, too bad! ” he said. “ This diph¬ 
theria is the worst thing in creation. How did it 
happen, Cyriac ? I thought they were gittin’ well 
yesterday. I could swear the girl was all right.” 

He came to the Frenchman’s side and sat down 
to listen to a father’s details of his children’s death- 
struggle. 

“ M’ ole oman,” said Cyriac, with a visible 
effort, “ watch Leah; I tek care o’ Joe, me. I 
clean de t’roat one, two, tree, much taime. She 
git bettair, poor Joe; mais lit’le gell he no git 
bettair. Very weak all de taime—choke. O seig¬ 
neur, c’est terrible! ” as the memory of her suffer¬ 
ing came back to him. “ I mek him dhrink de wine 
et de bif-tea, you see. All de sem ma little gell no 
git vary sthrong—weaker, weaker, ’n’ I t’ink, me, 
his bre’t’ stop, raight up. Two o’clock d’ ole 
’oman cry ’loud, ‘ O mon Dieu! Leah die.’ I run 
to him. It is so. Leah die, easy, easy, easy, laike 
go to sleep—no pain, no scream, no not’ing’,” finish¬ 
ing the description with a gesture of falling easily 
to sleep. “ Poor Joe hear her moder say he die, 
’n’ git frightened, you see, ’n’ call me raight off. 


3 1 6 


THE BARON OF CHERUBUSCO. 


1 Wot’s de madder wid you, Joe ? You ’fraid ?* 
* No, p’pa, no ’fraid me. Mek de pr’ers fo’ de 
soul. I go after Leah.’ ‘ You go after Leah,/^/ 
foil ? ' Leah no die. Moder ’fraid laike you, ’n’ 
scream. You stay wid Leah, Joe.’ Mais no fool, 
Joe. She say all de taime, ‘ Mek de pr’ers, p’pa, 
mek de pr’ers.’ Purt’ soon she go after Leah— 
easy, easy, too, comme de raison. Ah! seigneur, 
tout est perdu.” 

He spoke in broken tones, and with the last 
words burst into a fit of sobbing. The baron 
pressed his hand and turned his face away to hide 
the tears that moistened his fierce eyes. When his 
eyes were dry again he turned to me. 

“ Mighty hard, isn't it ? ” said he. “ An’ they 
were alone, too; no one with children ’ud go near 
’em. It’s the black diphtheria. Did you git any 
one to lay the children out, Cyriac ? ” 

“ I fix ’em tout seul,” said Cyriac briefly, with 
an expressive shrug of the shoulders. 

“ Well, I suppose it can’t be helped, Cyriac. 
I’m sorry for you—very sorry. It’s hard to lose 
your children after bringin’ ’em to that age; but 
it’s the way things are done in this world, an’ we 
can’t help ourselves.” 

“ Mes enfants se reposent dans les bras du bon 
Dieu,” said Cyriac, clasping his hands tightly with 
a sincere but painful effort at resignation. I trans¬ 
lated the sentence for the baron, and was rewarded 
with the usual glare. He could not presume to 
dispute the existence of heaven at that moment. 


JOHN TALBOT SMITH . 


3 X 7 

and raged to have me find him temporarily muzzled. 
Old Dupuy informed us that the children would be 
buried that evening at sundown, and was made 
happy by Mr. Turnham’s promise to attend, as, 
owing to the malignity of the disease, the ceremony 
would be private and no services held in the church 
until the next morning. The baron here saw fit to 
mention a little matter of business. It would have 
been in better taste to leave poor Cyriac to his 
heavy misfortunes, only that Mr. Turnhamwas not 
to be held back from any measure by the mere 
dictum of good taste. And, to tell the truth, the 
matter was not calculated to interfere with Cyriac’s 
sorrow. It was as if one had said to him, Your 
hat is awry, or, Button your coat and it will sit 
better, while he was wiping away his tears. 

“ To-morrow, Cyriac, if you don’t mind,” said 
the baron casually, “ we’ll talk over that bolt of 
the Duquette boys. It looks as if they mean to 
hold off till the other party buys ’em.” 

A deeper shade settled on Dupuy’s face, and I 
saw that he looked at his horny fingers, as if a new 
and startling difficulty had sprung suddenly from 
the deformed brown joints. 

“ I t’ink, me, it is de pries’,” he said slowly, with 
a long-drawn sigh. The baron stared at him with 
his mouth open, and Cyriac met the stare with a 
cringing smile. 

“ Purt’ bad boy dem Duquettes, M’sieu’ 
Tu’n’am,” he said gravely, seeing that the baron 
did not or would not understand the smile, whose 


3 i 8 THE baroh of cherubusco . 

meaning was perfectly clear to me. “ Bad Cat’- 
lique, no go t’ churc’, all taime drunk, no spik 
French—French no nice f’r dem. Las’ mont’ big 
change. Dey mek de confession, tek pew in de 
churc’, no drink no more—big change. I t’ink, 
me, it is de pries’.” 

Now the baron understood, and his face showed 
some such expression as must have rested on the 
face of the first Roman emperor who discovered the 
presence and the power of the Pope in Rome. 

“ That’s the new priest,” he said briefly. Cyriac 
nodded. “ Has he said anything to you ? ” 

Cyriac shrugged his shoulders doubtfully. 

“ Tell me,” shouted the baron, bringing down 
his fist with a crash on the desk, “ did he speak to 
you ? ” 

“ Turnham,” I suggested gently, “ let me remind 
you—” 

“ You—” But it will not do to record his answer. 
Had I said simply, remember his dead children, 
and left myself out of the suggestion, its effect 
would have cooled him instantly. Cyriac was fright¬ 
ened, but calm and polite. 

“ She say some word,” he replied, “ an’ I t’ink, 
me, she no say a word. * Cyriac Dupuy ’ ”—imi¬ 
tating the tone and manner of the priest—“ ‘ ’f you 
see the mans to buy ’n’ sell de vote, tell me, tell 
me all taime.’ ” 

“ That’s all ? ” said the baron, holding his wrath 
in check until he was bursting like a boy in smoth¬ 
ered laughter. 


JOHN TALBOT SMITH. 


319 


“ All,” replied Cyriac briefly, standing up to 
make his low, old-fashioned bow, with his hat 
describing a circle in his hand. 

It’s just as well, Cyriac,” drawing a paper from 
his open safe and shaking it at him with a most 
baronial air. “ When the priest comes foolin’ 
around you and talkin’ o’ the wickedness o’ buy in’ 
votes, just think o’ that an’ you’re safe.” An extra 
shade of humility lodged in Cyriac’s wrinkles. “ I 
won’t stand no curb’s nonsense. He may keep you 
from voting as I want you to, but he can’t stave off 
a mortgage. I’ll squeeze you, my boy—I’ll squeeze 

y y 

you. 

“ Turnham,” I said, disgusted, “ remember his 
children.” The baron blushed. No one acquainted 
with him would have noticed the purple current 
stealing behind his hat, whiskers, and spectacles. 
He hopped over to Cyriac, going out of the door, 
and slipped a bill into his hand while gently patting 
his back. 

“ It’s all right,” he said gently; “ we’ll settle 
this another time, and I’ll surely be at the 
funeral. ” 

My youth alone excused the antics in which I in¬ 
dulged after the door closed on the Canadian. I 
gravely jumped over several chairs, walked around 
them, stood on my head, and turned a boyish cart¬ 
wheel to the musical accompaniment of the baron’s 
profanity. On this occasion he swore more like an 
emperor than a baron, if we suppose that felicity 
and fluency follow a person’s rank. If verbal elec- 


320 THE BARON OR CHERUBUSCO . 

tricity could be stored in a material atmosphere, the 
office would have exploded on the spot. 

“ That accounts,” said he, “ for the Duquettes ” 
—the only words which were not pure exclamation 
in a five minutes’ discourse. 

“ I’m glad of it,” said I; “I rejoice in it. I 
don’t know much about Father O’Shaughnes- 

9 9 

sy— 

“ What! ” cried he, “ is that his name ? ” 

“ What’s in a name ? ” said I. “ Wait till you 
see the man. He’s so small that it seems ridiculous 
he should have so powerful a name. I’ll tell you 
what he did in Buckeye county two years ago.” 
The baron, who had been stupefied at the name, 
looked interested. “ A Democratic judge, who 
lived across the way from him, had a sewer which 
emptied into the priest’s garden, and because it was 
cut off brought the matter into court, meanly pre¬ 
ferring that his neighbor should die of typhoid than 
to dig a way for his sewerage. The judge was the 
county head of his party. An election was near; 
the priest went into it, and the county, for the first 
time in sixteen years, went Republican. I’m glad 
he’s here. You won’t buy any more Frenchmen. 
You won’t shake mortgages at them when they talk 
of voting as they please. You won’t see them 
running like chickens at the cluck of a hen whenever 
you crook your finger. Best of all, you will now 
need me and my methods to hold these people on 
your side. Influence now is more than money. I 
can coax where you can’t bribe or threaten. Do 


JOHN TALBOT SMITH . 


3 21 


you see ? Do you understand your position ? 
Father O’Shaughnessy will skewer you like a fly on 
a pin, and I say again I’m glad of it.” 

“ Oh! you air" snapped he, with his most in¬ 
tense nasal drawl. “You air glad of it, you son 
of a wild Irishman, you ignorant papist, — —! 
Well, I’ll show you just what that priest amounts 
to! I’ll buy more Frenchmen than I ever did. 
I’ll buy your Irishmen; I’ll buy the hull town, if I 
need it. And the barrel of whiskey ’ll stand jest 
where you re standin’; and I’ll set every p’isonous 
Kanuck’s drunk as Noah, and I’ll march ’em up to 
the polls jest as usual, an’ have ’em vote under my 
eye; an’ if they don’t, the niggers!—if they cut and 
run, the sinners!—I’ll cut the earth from under 
’em; I’ll fling ’em out of the town into Canada as 
poor as they came into it; an’ as for you an’ your 
notions, if you want to stand by Father O’Shaugh¬ 
nessy—” 

“ That’s my name, sir,” said a thin, precise voice 
at the door. The baron had been hopping about 
the office, and, being close to the door when it 
opened, fairly bawled the name into the visitor’s 
face. The little man was not as much surprised as 
the baron, and his keen gray eyes studied the stupid 
expression on Turnham’s face as calmly as though 
it were a brass door-knocker. 

“ Come in,” said Turnham feebly, as he hopped 
to his desk and mechanically struck a business atti¬ 
tude. “ Won’t you sit down ? ” 

“ Thank you,” said the precise voice. “ I want 


322 THE BARON OF CHERUBUSCO . 

a ton of coal sent up to the house this afternoon, if 
possible.” 

“ I’ll send it up,” said the baron briskly. At 
this point I ventured to introduce the two magnates. 

“You have good work to do here,’’ said Turn- 
ham roughly, as a salve to his recent confusion, “ in 
sendin’ the children to school. They don’t go, the 
half of ’em.” 

“ Pay their fathers decent wages,” said the 
priest, “ and the children will attend. Can a dollar 
a day eight months of the year support five persons 
decently ? If the school is all they say it is, I don’t 
blame them for remaining away.” 

“ How is that ? ’’ said the baron angrily, for the 
school was his pet device and chief diversion. 

“ Another time I’ll explain, sir. Briefly, do you 
believe in teaching Latin and physiology in a town 
whose people are born to labor hard all their lives ? 
I wonder you never asked yourself the question 
before. Excuse me now, as I am in a hurry. I’ll 
give you a chance to answer in a day or two.” 

He bade us good morning and went out hurriedly, 
leaving the baron to chew his pen-holder and to 
confide to me his impression that the priest was a 
vain busybody and needed a good fright in order to 
settle him in his proper position. 

“ Does he think,” said he, “ that priests only 
should study Latin ?” 

“ Between you and his reverence,’’ I replied, 
“ Cyriac Dupuy will be torn to shreds at election 
time.’’ 


JOHN TALBOT SMITH. 


323 


Poor Cyriac! As he stood looking into the dou¬ 
ble grave which held the two bodies dearest to him 
in this world, the fabled America of his childhood 
seemed as desolate and bleak as Anticosti, and he 
sighed in his quiet and polite way over the peace 
enjoyed in his native Canadian village, where death 
was never so violent and unkind, where great dis¬ 
asters by land and sea were heard of but once in a 
lifetime, where mortgages were practically unknown, 
and where votes, voting, bribery, and barons'were 
institutions that concerned only the rich and had 
little concern with the sorrows and joys of the poor. 

The peace that Cyriac dreamed of, although he 
thought it a Canadian possession, was really the 
natural peace of careless childhood; but because he 
had left Canada a child, to begin his apprenticeship 
to labor and sorrow in the States, it seemed to him 
happiness was a growth of his native soil—as it 
seems to all of us, whether success or sorrow meets 
us in the last days. And Cyriac, had he been com¬ 
pelled to return to Canada, would have looked for 
it as naturally as for the roses which grew in the 
front yard and the delicious peas that covered the 
paternal acre. Candidly, America, in the person of 
the baron, had been kind, and yet unjust, to him. 
He had reached Cherubusco in his fifteenth year, 
when the baron was a baby almost; but the baron’s 
father had given him work and encouragement and 
favor, and had urged him to learn English well and 
to become a citizen of the country. He did not 
succeed with the English, and, because party spirit 


32 4 THE BARON OF CHERUB US CO. 

was not very warm in earlier days, was not hurried 
to the other. As a matter of business, Turnham, 
junior, on succeeding his father, pointed out to him 
that were he naturalized he might make a few 
dollars on his vote at each election; whereupon 
Cyriac went through the usual formalities, and, on 
receiving a certain sum for depositing a bit of paper 
in a box one election day, began to think that the 
American Constitution was a great thing. He spread 
the news among his fellows, and immediately after 
it became the French fashion to haggle on election 
day with politicians, and to return home in the cool 
midnight a few dollars ahead of the world or full to 
the brim with bad whiskey. You can fancy the 
astonishment with which I first heard an honest and 
virtuous Canadian openly grumble on receiving for 
his vote a dollar less than his neighbor, and the 
deeper astonishment with which I listened to a com¬ 
mittee of barons bemoaning the treacherous designs 
of Catholics on the bulwarks of American freedom. 
Yet this moral turpitude really existed, and the 
defenders of the aforementioned bulwarks were 
deepening it daily, adding to it, in fact, and were 
bound to hold the ignorant, innocent Canadians to 
their attacks on the bulwarks, if they had to send 
half their forces to the enemy’s rear and bayonet 
them into battle. 

How it happened that Cyriac became the scape¬ 
goat of his countrymen amid his bitter misfortunes 
is accounted for by two circumstances: that he mar¬ 
shalled the hosts of bought voters for the baron, 


JOHN TALBOT SMITH. 


325 


and that he one day brought out the goose pimples 
of patriotic horror on Father O’Shaughnessy by 
artlessly mentioning how much he sold his vote for 
each year. From that unguarded admission dated 
Cyriac’s woes. He had the duties of citizenship 
sharply explained to him, and was made acquainted 
with the criminality of his acts. The priest and the 
baron both threatened him, the one with terrors of 
the law, the other with the mortgage; and as he 
looked at the steady alternatives he thought, with 
the poet, “ In truth, how am I straitened!” 
However, the mortgage was such a fixed, dread 
certainty, and Father O’Shaughnessy’s temper being 
a still unknown quantity, Cyriac determined to 
appeal to the priest for a milder interpretation of 
the law. He spoke to him after the funeral service 
was over. 

“ M’sieu’ le Cure,” said he with grave politeness, 
“ I laike to spik de few word wid you, m’sieu’, 
’bout de vote.” 

Monsieur le Cur6 bowed with a very cold face— 
so cold, in fact, that Cyriac hastened to 
say: 

“ I know, me, you spik thrue, m’sieu’. I mek 
mysel’ vary sorry dat I sell de vote, mais I know 
nottin’ f’r de counthry, ’n’ M’sieu’ Tu’n’am say, 
‘ All raight, all raight, Cyriac; you mek some 
monay, I git some vote—all raight, all raight, 
ALL raight.’ I no t’ink, me, all wrong. M’sieu’ 
Tu’n’am big man f’r de counthry, m’sieu’, vary 
big man. Mek de work f’r poor pipple, mek de 


326 THE BATON OF CHERUBUSCO. 

house, len’ de monay, git de job—vary good neigh¬ 
bor, oh! vary good neighbor.” 

After this prologue Cyriac twisted his hat and 
waited for a reply which might give him a chance 
to declare the object of his visit. Monsieur le Cure 
O’Shaughnessy, however, was as dumb as if he were 
born so. Cyriac came to the point then desperate- 

>y- 

“ Purt’ soon, m’sieu’, dey mek de vote f’r ’lection. 
Some buy, some sell. No mattair f’r de raight or 
de wrong; buy, sell all same. I t’ink, me, no 
harm ”—he hesitated for the right words to express 
a delicate and embarrassing thought, and then said 
in tumultuous patois: “ If all others can buy and 
sell, why not I, for this one time—only for this one 
time ? ” It was his last hope, and Monsieur le 
Cure knew it and laughed rather heartlessly in his 
face. Not for that—oh! no—but at his reasoning. 
He caught the emphasis on the last words and their 
piteous eagerness. 

“ Why for this one time, Cyriac Dupuy ? ” he 
asked, and saw at once by the expression on the 
man’s face that it was the proper question to put. 
“ Why for this one time, Mr. Dupuy ? ” 

More hat-twisting and hesitation. It was so 
dead a certainty, that mortgage, why need the 
priest be made acquainted with its existence ? 
Cyriac looked out sadly on the green lawn where to 
his mournful fancy the document which the baron 
had menaced him with stalked like a sheriff outside 
Congress awaiting his noble prey; and as his gaze 


JOHN TALBOT SMITH. 


327 


wandered up to the new-made graves, and he com¬ 
pared the grief of that day with the new griefs that 
priest and baron were making for him, a few resist¬ 
less tears streamed over his face. He was a man, 
and therefore ashamed of them ; and because Father 
O’Shaughnessy took his emotion coolly, being used 
to tears, he sat down and in mingled English and 
patois explained his straitened position. 

“ It is too bad,” said the priest when he had 
finished, “ and I consider Turnham a cruel man. 
But if worse were to happen you, Cyriac, if you 
were to be thrown out naked, you could not engage 
in this detestable traffic in votes. You must let 
your fellows alone. You can vote as you please. 
But to sell your vote, to buy others, to do this 
dirty work—no! no! no! Let your house be sold, 
let everything go; but be honest, Cyriac, and true 
to the teachings of your Church.” 

Cyriac knew somewhat of those teachings, but 
saw no connection between religion and voting, and 
was minded to tell the priest that the catechism 
said nothing about it. Yet why dispute ? The 
priest had pointed out the law and the right, and 
he was bound to follow both at any cost. If there 
were no mortgage the cost would be trifling; now 
it included his little possessions, the savings of a 
lifetime. He rose to depart in silence, with his 
despair and his resolution written on his seamed 
face. 

“ You will do as I have advised? ” said the priest 
kindly. 


328 THE BARON OF CHERUBUSCO. 

“ Purt’ hard, m’sieu’; mais ,” shrugging the 
shoulders, “ I must.” 

“ And if you suffer for it,” added the priest, 
“ never fear but that I will do all I can for you.” 

Which was small consolation to Cyriac, whose 
business eye saw the immense disproportion between 
his poverty and the baron’s wealth. 

“ I lose de house,” he said briefly, and his Rever¬ 
ence felt the implied reproach without anger. 

“ Better to lose that than your honest name, Mr. 
Dupuy. Better to be poor and to lose your dear 
earnings than to be a shame to Canada and a danger 
to this country. Better to have no house than to 
own one at the price you are to pay for yours.” 

His tone impressed the poor man, if his words did 
not. Cyriac could not see the relation of vote-buy¬ 
ing to shame and danger and dishonesty, and felt 
no emotion on hearing these stately sentences; but 
he knew “ f’r sure ” that the priest and the Church 
regarded it as a great crime; he was therefore tied 
to the necessity of avoiding it forever. What a dull 
pain beat against his heart all that day ! He thought 
with mournful satisfaction that, while himself and 
his old wife would lose their home, the children 
were never again to be in danger of losing theirs. 
Who held a mortgage on a graveyard, or who would 
throw the dead from their shelter ? Cyriac had 
never read the annals of the Gironde. 

The baron had been present at the funeral, and 
had noted sourly the interview with the priest. 
Was it that circumstance which tightened his ner- 


JOHN TALBOT SMITH . 


3 2 9 


vous, vicious grasp on Cyriac’s arm at their next 
meeting ? He dared not look in the baron’s face, 
and would have given much to be able to forget the 
many favors father and son had heaped on him. 
They weighted him heavier than the mortgage. 
Turnham was breathing hard, and the beads of 
sweat started out on his forehead, as he came face 
to face with his henchman and with a terrible 
thought which Cyriac’s sad face suggested. 

“ Cyriac ”—his voice shook like a leaf—“ my two 
boys have the diphtheria. What if they should 
die ?” 

“ Mon Dieu! ” cried Cyriac as the remembrance 
of his own suffering rushed upon him, 11 c’est effray- 
ante. Git de bes’ doctor. Clean de t’roat vary 
much, ’n’ pray on de bon Dieu.” 

Pray to the good God! It was the very last 
remedy which would occur to the baronial mind; but 
in his excited state, recalling the number of faith- 
cures which had taken place in certain parts of the 
country, and knowing the depth and strength of 
Cyriac’s faith, he said, and to this day denies that 
he said: 

“ Dupuy, you pray for’em. If faith an’ pra’er 
kin save, you’re the man for that business.” 

And his voice broke into a wail pathetic enough 
to veil the ridiculousness of the remark from the 
humorous ear. 

Cyriac volunteered his services in nursing the boys, 
and was brought to the house by the grateful baron. 
In a village which had suffered much from the 


330 


THE BATON OF CHET UB US CO. 


ravages of diphtheria it was difficult to secure the 
services of a neighbor. The baron, indeed, would 
not have asked so great a favor. He was rather 
anxious than otherwise that friends with children in 
their family should remain away, and never opened 
his door to a knock until the visitor was made 
acquainted with the fatal presence within. His 
haggard face would then be thrust through the 
barely opened door and business transacted briefly. 
In four days he did not once come to the office. 
Day and night he and Cyriac haunted the sick-rooms 
of the children, sleeping fitfully, talking mournfully 
of life’s chances, working with might and main to 
fight off the disease. In the critical moments when 
man and medicine could do no more, and nature 
had hard work to assert itself, he stood in silent 
agony, squeezing the old man’s rough hand and 
muttering : 

“ I know now what you suffered,” with his hard 
eyes fixed on the young faces. Meanwhile Cyriac 
was praying “ on de bon Dieu,” and the baron was 
solicitous to know if he prayed still. 

Occasionally pressing business of an unusual 
nature made it necessary for me to intrude on his 
grief. I was struck with the intensity of anguish 
and anxiety expressed in his face, never having 
credited him with a human feeling so deep and sin¬ 
cere. He heard my account listlessly, and in like 
fashion gave me my directions. 

“ How are the boys? ” I asked when about to go. 

“ Would you like to see them ? ” he said, with a 


JOHN TALBOT SMITH. 


33 1 


gesture of hopelessness. It was the fourth day— 
the day of the crisis. ‘‘ But I forgot. You have 
brothers and sisters. It is not the place for you.” 

And although I protested, he would not permit 
me to enter the sick-room. 

“ I don’t want any human being to suffer this 
way,” said he, unconsciously laying his hand on his 
heart, while his eyes wandered drearily towards the 
inner chambers. He was suffering in all truth, and 
I thought it best to defer some information concern¬ 
ing the election until another time. Such tender¬ 
ness! such affection! I could not believe it. And 
yet in how many instances of his life had I seen the 
baron as charitable and human-hearted as he was 
often hard and cruel! Ten minutes after I left his 
house four day-laborers presented themselves before 
him to protest against a wage of ninety cents a day. 

“ How much do you pay for your board ? ” said 
he. 

“ Three dollars a week,” said the laborers. 

“ That leaves you a hundred dollars a year, boys, 
to dress on and spend. If you had any more you’d 
drink it. You’re all single, an’ it’s quite enough 
for you. If you had women an’ children to look 
after I might raise you twenty cents.” 

Vainly they pleaded, argued, threatened. After 
cursing him heartily for a stingy devil, and being 
cursed uproariously in turn, they departed. It was 
my good fortune to encounter him later in the day. 
The information I held could not be longer kept 
from him, humiliating as it was to my pride. The 


33 2 the BA ROM OF CHERUBUSCO. 

electioneering processes were all disordered. Father 
O’Shaughnessy, in a quiet way, had sat on vote¬ 
buying among the Canadians, and there was a gen¬ 
eral break along the line. Nor could I, with all 
my persuasiveness, after all my boasting, induce 
even a handful to promise their votes for the baron. 
I humbly explained the situation to him. Cyriac 
happened to be in the room looking for a medicine- 
bottle. 

44 Do you hear that ? ” said the baron. The old 
man shrugged his shoulders and smilingly shook his 
head. He was out of politics this year. 

“ You’ve got to straighten things out,” said the 
baron boldly. “ I’ll let you off duty. Go an’ see 
the boys. Promise ’em anything they ask. Git 
’em all into line, an’ after they vote we’ll settle 
with ’em.” 

Cyriac listened to these directions, given with old- 
time freedom and directness, as the condemned 
listens to the Sheriff’s legal reasons for taking away 
his life; then he shook his head and continued his 
search for the bottle. 

“ Cyriac, sit down here,” shoving a chair towards 
him. Cyriac sat down seriously. “ What nonsense 
has the priest been stuffin’ ye with now ? You 
ain’t goin’ back on us at the last minnit without 
warnin’, be you ? If you were goin’ to do that, 
why didn’t you let us know days back when we 
could have filled yer place ? Oh! no; you’ve got 
to come to time this onct, an’ next year, if you say 
so, we’ll count you out.” 


JOHN TALBOT SMITH . 


333 


“ Counting-in is the fashion this year,” said I, 
referring to a recent political event. 

“ Just so.” And a smile glimmered for a 
moment on the waste of beard. ” You’ve got to 
count me into office this year, Cyriac,” patting his 
knee kindly, ” and after that stay at home. Your 
priest is foolin’ you. Everybody buys and sells 
votes. It’s the custom of the country. It may be 
wrong where the priest comes from; it is not wrong 
here. I won’t ask you to buy a vote. Go an’ talk 
to the boys. Square ’em up; straighten ’em out. 
Git ’em to promise their votes; see that they vote 
right, an’ I’ll do the rest. Ain’t that fair ? ” 

It looked fair, but, as we all knew, the looks did 
not here indicate the disposition. 

” No use,” said Cyriac nervously. “ I no more 
buy de vote, me.” 

“ Well, well,” said the baron, with a patient sigh 
and a curious inspection of the wrinkled face whose 
owner so stubbornly defied him. ” You don’t see 
what I mean. You needn’t buy. Talk to the 
boys. Why won’t you do that ? ” 

“ To talk is to buy,” answered Cyriac, with 
shrewdness and dignity. 

“ It’s the last time I’ll ask you to do it, Cyriac. 
We can’t do without your influence now, an’ if you 
go back on me I’m fixed for this year. You won’t 
be able to stand this town if I lose an’ the boys 
know I lost through you. The place ’ll git too hot 
for you.” 

Cyri?: felt the force of this statement, which the 


334 


THE BARON' OF CHERUBUSCO . 


baron proceeded to amplify, and his distress and 
anguish were evident. He brushed his hair and 
fidgeted woefully, and once or twice I thought he 
was about to surrender, for this year at least. So 
did the baron, who, when he had worked up the 
old man’s feelings to a proper pitch, pushed him 
gently towards the door, saying, as if the matter 
were settled: 

“ Do your best with the boys, Cyriac, an’ the 
hull thing ’ll be forgotten to-morrow.” 

Houseless, childless, friendless, driven from the 
town which had given him a home for forty years! 
A more violent temptation was never thrust upon 
any man, and Cyriac was not to be blamed for the 
momentary yielding before these terrible conse¬ 
quences. He walked to the door in a dream, see¬ 
ing on one side his poverty and exile, his defiance 
of Monsieur le Cur£ on the other. The thought of 
crime did not occur to him, for he could see no 
crime in vote-buying. Nor did he know how wildly 
consequences had been exaggerated by the baron, 
and how determined a friend he had in Monsieur 
O’Shaughnessy. His temptation was real, if its 
circumstances were not, and so he turned submis¬ 
sively away, put on his hat, turned the knob, and 
hesitated. It was a flash of baronial genius which 
prompted Turnham to supplement that hesitation 
as he did. He drew from his pocket the mortgage 
on Cyriac’s house, showed it to him silently, and 
tore it into bits so small that no art could ever again 
make it a legal instrument. The old man shook as 


JOHN TALBOT SMITH . 


335 


if with an ague, stretched out his hand to protest, 
while the unwilling tears streamed over his pallid 
face. 

“ M’sieu’ Tu’n’am,” said he, brokenly, “ your 
fader vary good, you bettair. Me go back on 
Kennedy [Canada]. You ’ave de house raight off, 
but no more buy de vote.” 

With these words he left the room, and the baron 
stood gazing now at the door, now at the litter of 
torn paper on the carpet, while the clock ticking on 
the shelf seemed hammering the dead stillness into 
the very furniture. 

“ Beaten by a damned Frenchman!” hissed my 
patron as he threw himself and his leg out of the 
room. 

Beaten! Yes, the baron was beaten, routed, 
horse, foot, and artillery, by the same power which 
had beaten imperial Caesar; and he felt very sore 
over it. Being a shrewd politician, however, he was 
determined to make the most of altered circum¬ 
stances, and my mock regrets at being compelled to 
rank him with the judge of Buckeye County were 
received with equanimity. His children were get¬ 
ting well, and when the election came off matters 
went so very smoothly and prosperously that he 
could afford to be chaffed about sacerdotal influence. 
Cyriac came to the polls, deposited a vote for his 
sometime master, and returned home to finish the 
packing of his household goods. Quite enough 
votes for any purpose were still to be purchased 


336 THE BARON OF CHERUBUSCO. 

in Cherubusco, and the baron was elected by a 
reduced but still handsome majority. Father 
O’Shaughnessy voted for him on my recommenda¬ 
tion—a fact which made his first' visit of ceremony 
to the baron’s office an agreeable occasion. He 
talked cordially on the questions of the day, read 
the baron a lecture on bribery with a general appli¬ 
cation, and asked him to prevent gentlemen who 
held mortgages on the property of the poor from 
using said mortgages improperly; which my patron 
promised to do, and consequently Cyriac did not 
go to Canada. He resumed in time the old affec¬ 
tionate relations with Turnham, but no word was 
ever spoken to him of vote-buying. The baron 
was content with legitimate service from him, and 
to this day falls into a deep melancholy when 
reminded of the occasion of his henchman’s victory 
over him. 


CHARLES WARREN STODDARD. 

Charles Warren Stoddard was born at Rochester, 
N. Y., on August 7th, 1843, and as a child of twelve 
removed to California with his parents. There he remained 
for two years, when he returned to New York and attended 
school till 1859; then he once more joined his family in 
California. In 1864 he made the first of five journeys to 
Hawaii, a country to which, till then, comparatively few 
foreigners had gone. On his second voyage there, in 
1868, five years before the advent of Father Damien, he 
visited the Leper settlement at Molokai. Fifteen years 
later, at the time of his last journey to the Sandwich Islands, 
he was the guest of the great Apostle of the Lepers. In 
1873 he was sent on an extended excursion.to Europe as 






















special correspondent of the San Francisco Chronicle , and 
in that character drifted about for four years, from place to 
place, going as far as Asia and Africa. Thoroughly appreci¬ 
ating the genius and ability of its correspondent, the Chronicle 
restricted him neither to time nor place, and it was while 
acting for that journal he produced his “ South Sea Idyls/' 
than which there is nothing more beautiful of its kind in 
English. Weary of his wanderings, Mr. Stoddard at last 
determined to “settle down," and in 1885 he accepted the 
position of Professor of English Literature at Notre Dame 
University. This he held for two years, when he was 
obliged to resign through illness and seek renewed health in 
the Blue Grass region of Kentucky. 

In 1889, when the Catholic University of America was 
opened in' Washington, Mr. Stoddard was tendered the 
chaiT of English Literature, which he has since filled to 
entire satisfaction. 

Mr. W. D. Howells, the distinguished author and critic, 
speaks of the “South Sea Idyls " as “ the lightest, sweetest, 
wildest, freshest things that ever were written about the 
life of that summer ocean ; * * * there are few such 

delicious bits of literature in the language ; * * * they 

always seemed to me of the very make of the tropic spray 
which 4 knows not if it be sea or sun.’ " 

Mr. Stoddard's published works are : “ Poems," “ South 
Sea Idyls,” “Summer Cruising in the South Seas,” 
44 Marshallah, A Flight into Egypt,” 44 A Trip to Hawaii,” 
“The Lepers of Molokai,” “ A Troubled Heart, and How 
it was Comforted at Last," and “Hawaiian Life, being 
Lazy Letters from Low Latitudes.” 


Joe of Xabama* 


BY CHARLES WARREN STODDARD. 

I. 

I WAS stormed in at Lahaina. Now, Lahaina is 
a little slice of civilization beached on the shore of 
barbarism. One can easily stand that little of it, for 
brown and brawny heathendom becomes more won¬ 
derful and captivating by contrast. So I was glad 
of dear, drowsy little Lahaina, and was glad also 
that she had but one broad street, which possibly 
led to destruction, and yet looked lovely in the dis¬ 
tance. It didn’t matter to me that the one broad 
street had but one side to it, for the sea lapped over 
the sloping sands on its lower edge, and the sun 
used to set right in the face of every solitary citizen 
of Lahaina just as he went to supper. 

I was waiting to catch a passage in a passing 
schooner, and that’s why I came there; but the 
schooner flashed by us in a great gale from the 
south, and so I was stormed in indefinitely. 

It was Holy Week, and I concluded to go to 
housekeeping, because it would be so nice to have 
my frugal meals in private, to go to Mass and Ves¬ 
pers daily, and then to come back and feel quite at 
339 


340 


JOE OF LAHAINA. 


home. My villa was suburban—built of dried 
grasses on the model of a haystack, dug out in the 
middle, with doors and windows let into the four 
sides thereof. It was planted in the midst of a 
vineyard, with avenues stretching in all directions 
under a network of stems and tendrils. 

• “ Her breath is sweeter than the sweet winds 
That breathe over the grape-blossoms of Lahaina.” 

So the song said; and I began to think upon the 
surpassing sweetness of that breath as I inhaled the 
sweet winds of Lahaina, while the wilderness of its 
vineyards blossomed like the rose. I used to sit in 
my veranda and turn to Joe (Joe was my private 
and confidential servant), and I would say to Joe, 
while we scented the odor of grape, and saw the 
great banana leaves waving their cambric sails, and 
heard the sea moaning in the melancholy distance,— 
I would say to him, “ Joe, housekeeping is good 
fun, isn’t it?” Whereupon Joe would utter a sort 
of unanimous Yes, with his whole body and soul; 
so that question was carried triumphantly, and we 
would relapse into a comfortable silence, while the 
voices of the wily singers down on the city front 
would whisper to us and cause us to wonder what 
they could possibly be doing at that moment in the 
broad way that led to destruction. Then we would 
take a drink of cocoa milk and finish our bananas 
and go to bed, because we had nothing else to do. 

This is the way that we began our co-operative 
housekeeping: One night, when there was a riotous 


CHARLES WARREN STODDARD 341 

sort of a festival off in a retired valley, I saw in the 
excited throng of natives who were going mad over 
their national dance a young face that seemed to 
embody a whole tropical romance. On another 
night, when a lot of us were bathing in the moon¬ 
light, I saw a figure so fresh and joyous that I be¬ 
gan to realize how the old Greeks could worship 
mere physical beauty and forget its higher forms. 
Then I discovered that face on this body,— a rare 
enough combination,—and the whole constituted 
Joe, a young scapegrace who was schooling at La- 
haina, under the eye—not a very sharp one—of his 
uncle. When I got stormed in and resolved on 
housekeeping for a season, I took Joe, bribing his 
uncle to keep the peace, which he promised to do, 
provided I gave bonds for Joe’s irreproachable con¬ 
duct while with me. I willingly gave bonds—verbal 
ones—for this was just what I wanted of Joe: 
namely, to instil into his youthful mind those 
counsels which, if rigorously followed, must result 
in his becoming a true and unterrified American. 
This compact settled, Joe took up his bed,—a roll 
of mats,—and down we marched to my villa, and 
began housekeeping in good earnest. 

We soon got settled, and began to enjoy life, 
though we were not without occasional domestic in¬ 
felicities. For instance, Joe would wake up in the 
middle of the night, declaring to me that it was 
morning, and thereupon insist upon sweeping out 
at once, and in the most vigorous manner. Having 
filled the air with dust, he would rush off to the 


342 


JOE OF LA HA IN A. 


baker’s for our hot rolls and a pat of breakfast butter, 
leaving me, meantime, to recover as I might. Hav¬ 
ing settled myself for a comfortable hour’s reading, 
bolstered up in a luxurious fashion, Joe would enter 
with breakfast, and orders to the effect that it 
be eaten at once and without delay. It was useless 
for me to remonstrate with him: he was tyrannical. 

He got me into all sorts of trouble. It was Holy 
Week, and I had resolved upon going to Mass and 
Vespers daily. I went. The soft night winds floated 
in through the latticed windows of the chapel, and 
made the candles flicker upon the altar. The little 
throng of natives bowed in the impressive silence, 
and were deeply moved. It was rest for the soul 
to be there; yet, in the midst of it, while the Father 
with his pale, sad face gave his instructions, to 
which we listened as attentively as possible,—for 
there was something in his manner and his voice 
that made us better creatures,—while we listened, 
in the midst of it I heard a shrill little whistle, a 
sort of chirp, that I knew perfectly well. It was 
Joe sitting on a cocoa-stump in the garden adjoin¬ 
ing, and beseeching me to come out, right off. 
When service was over, I remonstrated with him 
for his irreverence. “Joe,” I said, “if you have 
no respect for religion yourself, respect those who 
are more fortunate than you.” But Joe was dressed 
in his best, and quite wild at the entrancing loveli¬ 
ness of the night. “ Let’s walk a little,” said Joe, 
covered with fragrant wreaths, and redolent of 
cocoanut-oil. What could I do? If I had tried to do 


CHARLES WARREN STODDARD. 


343 


anything to the contrary, he might have taken me and 
thrown me away somewhere into a well or a jungle, 
and then I could no longer hope to touch the chord 
of remorse,—which chord I sought vainly, and 
which I have since concluded was not in Joe’s phys¬ 
ical corporation at all. So we walked a little. In 
vain I strove to break Joe of the shocking habit of 
whistling me out of Vespers. He would persist in 
doing it. Moreover, during the day he would col¬ 
lect crusts of bread and banana skins, station him¬ 
self in ambush behind the curtain of the window 
next the lane, and, as some solitary creature strode 
solemnly past, Joe would discharge a volley of am¬ 
munition over him, and then laugh immoderately at 
his indignation and surprise. Joe was my pet ele¬ 
phant, and I was obliged to play with him very 
cautiously. 

One morning he disappeared. I was without the 
consolation of a breakfast even. I made my toilet, 
went to my portmanteau for my purse—for I had 
decided upon a visit to the baker,—when, lo! part 
of my slender means had mysteriously disappeared. 
Joe was gone and the money also. All day I 
thought about it. In the morning, after a very 
long and miserable night, I woke up, and when I 
opened my eyes, there, in the doorway, stood Joe, 
in a brand-new suit of clothes, including boots and 
hat. He was gorgeous beyond description, and 
seemed overjoyed to see me, and as merry as 
though nothing unusual had happened. I was quite 
startled at this apparition. “ Joseph !” I said in my 


344 


JOE OF LAHAINA. 


severest tone, and then turned over and looked 
away from him. Joe evaded the subject in the most 
delicate manner, and was never so interesting as at 
that moment. He sang his specialties, and played 
clumsily upon his bamboo flute,—to soothe me, I 
suppose,—and wanted me to eat a whole flat pie 
which he had brought home as a peace-offering, but¬ 
toned tightly under his jacket. I saw I must strike 
at once, if I struck at all; so I said, “ Joe, what on 
earth did you do with that money? ” Joe said he 
had replenished his wardrobe, and bought the flat 
pie especially for me. “ Joseph,” I said, with great 
dignity, “do you know that you have been steal¬ 
ing, and that it is highly sinful to steal, and may 
result in something unpleasant in the world to 
come?” Joe said “Yes” pleasantly, though I 
hardly think he meant it; and then he added, 
mildly, “ that he couldn’t lie,”—which was a glar¬ 
ing falsehood,—“ but wanted me to be sure that he 
took the money, and so had come back to tell me.” 

“ Joseph,” I said, “ you remind me of our noble 
Washington;” and, to my amazement, Joe was mor¬ 
tified. He didn’t, of course, know who Washing¬ 
ton was, but he suspected that I was ridiculing 
him. He came to the bed and haughtily insisted 
upon my taking the little change he had received 
from his customers, but I implored him to keep it, 
as I had no use at all for it, and, as I assured him, 
I much preferred hearing it jingle in his pocket. 

The next day I sailed out of Lahaina, and Joe 
came to the beach with his new trousers tucked into 


CHARLES WARREN STODDARD . 345 

his new boots, while he waved his new hat violently 
in a final adieu, much to the envy and admiration 
of a score of hatless urchins, who looked upon Joe 
as the glass of fashion, and but little lower than the 
angels. When I entered the boat to set sail, a tear 
stood in Joe’s bright eye, and I think he was really 
sorry to part with me; and I don’t wonder at it, be¬ 
cause our housekeeping experiences were new to 
him,—and I may add, not unprofitable. 

II. 

Some months of mellow and beautiful weather 
found me wandering here and there among the 
islands, when the gales came on again, and I was 
driven about homeless, and sometimes friendless, 
until, by and by, I heard of an opportunity to visit 
Molokai,—an island seldom visited by the tourist,—- 
where, perhaps, I could get a close view of a singu¬ 
larly sad and interesting colony of lepers. 

The whole island is green, but lonely. As you 
ride over its excellent turnpike you see the ruins of 
a nation that is passing like a shadow out of sight: 
deserted garden-patches, crumbling walls, and roofs 
tumbled into the one state-chamber of the house, 
while knots of long grass wave at half-mast in the 
chinks and crannies; a land of great traditions, 
of magic and witchcraft and spirits; a fertile and 
fragrant solitude. How I enjoyed it; and yet how 
it was all telling upon me, in its own way! One 
cannot help feeling sad there, for he seems to be 


346 


JOE OF LAHAINA. 


living and moving in a long reverie, out of which he 
dreads to awaken to a less pathetic life. I rode a 
day or two among the solemn and reproachful ruins 
with inexpressible complacence, and, having finally 
climbed a series of verdant and downy hills, and 
ridden for twenty minutes in a brisk shower, came 
suddenly upon the brink of a great precipice, three 
thousand feet in the air. My horse instinctively 
braced himself, and I nervously jerked the bridle 
square up to my breastbone, as I found we were 
poised between heaven and earth, upon a trembling 
pinnacle of rock. A broad peninsula was stretched 
below me, covered with grassy hills; here and there 
clusters of brown huts were visible, and to the right 
the white dots of houses to which I was hastening, 
for that was the leper village. To that spot were 
the wandering and afflicted tribes brought home to 
die. Once descending the narrow stairs in the cliff 
under me, never again could they hope to strike 
their tents and resume their pilgrimage; for the 
curse was on them, and necessity had narrowed 
down their sphere of action to this compass,—a 
solitary slope between sea and land, with the invisi¬ 
ble sentinels of Fear and Fate forever watching its 
borders. 

I seemed to be looking into a fiery furnace, where¬ 
in walked the living bodies of those whom Death 
had already set his seal upon. What a mockery it 
seemed to be, climbing down that crag,—through 
wreaths of vine, and under leafy cataracts breaking 
into a foam of blossoms a thousand feet below me; 


CHARLES WARREN STODDARD . 


347 


swinging aside the hanging parasites that obstructed 
the narrow way,—entering the valley of death, and 
the very mouth of hell, by these floral avenues! 

A brisk ride of a couple of miles across the 
breadth of the peninsula brought me to the gate of 
the keeper of the settlement, and there I dis¬ 
mounted, and hastened into the house to be rid 
of the curious crowd that had gathered to receive 
me. The little cottage was very comfortable, my 
host and hostess friends of precious memory; and 
with them I felt at once at home, and began the 
new life that every one begins when the earth seems 
to have been suddenly transformed into some better 
or worse world, and he alone survives the transfor¬ 
mation. 

Have you never had such an experience? Then 
go into the midst of a community of lepers; have 
ever before your eyes their Gorgon-like faces; see 
the horrors, hardly to be recognized as human, that 
grope about you; listen in vain for the voices that 
have been hushed forever by decay; breathe the 
tainted atmosphere; and bear ever in mind that, 
while they hover about you,—forbidden to touch 
you, yet longing to clasp once more a hand that is 
perfect and pure,—the insidious seeds of the mal¬ 
ady may be generating in your vitals, and your 
heart, even then, be drunk with death! 

I might as well confess that I slept indifferently 
the first night; that I was not entirely free from 
nervousness the next day, as I passed through the 
various wards assigned to patients in every stage of 


34 § 


JOE OF LA HA IN A. 


decomposition. But I recovered myself in time to 
observe the admirable system adopted by the 
Hawaiian Government for the protection of its un¬ 
fortunate people. I used to sit by the window and 
see the processions of the less afflicted come for lit¬ 
tle measures of milk morning and evening. Then 
there was a continuous raid upon the ointment-pot, 
with the contents of which they delighted to 
anoint themselves. Trifling disturbances sometimes 
brought the plaintiff and defendant to the front 
gate for final judgment at the hands of their be¬ 
loved keeper. And it was a constant entertain¬ 
ment to watch the progress of events in that singu¬ 
lar little world of doomed spirits. They were not 
unhappy. I used to hear them singing every even¬ 
ing : their souls were singing while their bodies 
were falling rapidly to dust. They continued to 
play their games, as well as they could play them 
with the loss of a finger-joint or a toe, from week 
to week : it was thus gradually and thus slowly that 
they died, feeling their voices growjng fainter and 
their strength less, as the idle days passed over them 
and swept them to the tomb. 

Sitting at the window on the second evening, as 
the patients came up for milk, I observed one of 
them watching me intently, and apparently trying 
to make me understand something or other, but 
what that something was I could not guess. He 
rushed to the keeper and talked excitedly with him 
for a moment, and then withdrew to one side of the 
gate, and waited till the others were served with 


CHARLES WARREN STODDARD. 349 

their milk, still watching me all the while. Then 
the keeper entered and told me how I had a friend 
out there who wished to speak to me—some one 
who had seen me somewhere, he supposed, but 
whom I would hardly remember. It was their way 
never to forget a face they had once become famil¬ 
iar with. Out I went. There was a face I could 
not have recognized as anything friendly or human. 
Knots of flesh stood out upon it; scar upon scar 
disfigured it. The expression was like that of a 
mummy, stony and withered. The outlines of a 
youthful face were preserved, but the hands and 
feet were pitiful to look at. What was this ogre 
that knew me and loved me still? 

He soon told me who he had once been, but was 
no longer—our little unfortunate “Joe,” my La- 
haina charge. In his case the disease had spread 
with fearful rapidity: the keeper thought he could 
hardly survive the year. Many linger year after 
year, and cannot die; but Joe was more fortunate. 
His life had been brief and passionate, and death 
was now hastening him to his dissolution. 

Joe was forbidden to come near me, so he 
crouched down by the fence, and pressing his hands 
between the pickets sifted the dust at my feet, while 
he wailed in a low voice, and called me over and 
over, “ dear friend,” “good friend,” and “master.” 
I wish I had never seen him so humbled. To 
think of my disreputable little protege, who was 
wont to lord it over me as though he had been a 
born chief,—to think of Joe as being there in his 


JOE OF LA HA IN A . 


35C> 

extremity, grovelling in the dust at my feet; for¬ 
bidden to climb the great wall of flowers that tow¬ 
ered between him and his beautiful world, while the 
rough sea lashed the coast about him, and his only 
companions were such hideous forms as would 
frighten one out of a dream! 

How I wanted to get close to him! but I dared 
not; so we sat there with the slats of the fence be¬ 
tween us, while we talked very long in the twilight; 
and I was glad when it grew so dark that I could 
no longer see his face,—his terrible face, that came 
to kill the memory of his former beauty. 

And Joe wondered whether I still remembered 
how we used to walk in the night, and go home at 
last to our little house when Lahaina was as still as 
death, and you could almost hear the great stars 
throbbing in the clear sky! How well I remem¬ 
bered it, and the day when we went a long way 
down the beach, and, looking back, saw a wide 
curve of the land cutting the sea like a sickle, and 
turning up a white and shining swath! Then, in 
another place, a grove of cocoa palms and a melan¬ 
choly, monastic-looking building, with splendid 
palm-branches in its broad windows; for it was 
just after Palm Sunday, and the building belonged to 
a sisterhood. And I remembered how the clouds 
fell and the rain drove us into a sudden shelter, and 
we ate tamarind jam, spread thick on thin slices of 
bread, and were supremely happy. In this con¬ 
nection I could not forget how Joe became very 
unruly about that time, and I got mortified, and 


CHARLES WARREN STODDARD. 


35 1 


found great difficulty in getting him home at all; 
and yet the memory of it would have been perfect 
but for this fate. O Joe, my poor, dear, terrible 
cobra! to think that I should ever be afraid to look 
into your face in my life! 

Joe wanted to call to my mind one other remi- 
• niscence—a night when we two walked to the old 
wharf, and went out to the end of it, and sat there 
looking inland, watching the inky waves slide up 
and down the beach, while the full moon rose over 
the superb mountains where the clouds were heaped 
like wool, and the very air seemed full of utterances 
that you could almost hear and understand but for 
something that made them all a mystery. I tried 
then, if ever I tried in my life, to make Joe a little 
less bad than he was naturally, and he seemed 
nearly inclined to be better, and would, I think, 
have been so but for the thousand temptations 
that gravitated to him when we got on solid earth 
again. He forgot my precepts then, and I’m 
afraid I forgot them myself. Joe remembered that 
night vividly. I was touched to hear him confess 
it, and I pray earnestly that that one moment may 
plead for him in the last day—if indeed he needs 
any special plea other than that Nature has pub¬ 
lished for her own. 

“Sing for me, Joe,” said I; and Joe, still 
crouching on the other side of the lattice, sang 
some of his old songs. One of them—a popular 
melody—was echoed through the little settlement, 
where faint voices caught up the chorus, and the 


352 


JOE OF LA HA IN.A. 


night was wildly and weirdly musical. We walked 
by the sea the next day and the day following that, 
Joe taking pains to stay on the leeward side of me 
—he was so careful to keep the knowledge of his 
fate uppermost in his mind: how could I dismiss it 
from my own, when it was branded in his counte¬ 
nance? The desolate beauty of his face plead for' 
measureless pity, and I gave it out of my prodi¬ 
gality, yet I felt that 1 could not begin to give 
sufficient. 

Link by link he was casting off his hold on life; 
he was no longer a complete being ; his soul was 
prostrated in the miry clay, and waited, in agony, 
its long deliverance. 

In leaving the leper village I had concluded to 
say nothing to Joe other than the usual “aloha" 
at night, when I could ride off in the darkness, 
and, sleeping at the foot of the cliff, ascend it in 
the first light of morning, and get well on my jour¬ 
ney before the heat of the day. We took a last 
walk by the rocks on the shore, heard the sea 
breathing its long breath under the hollow cones of 
lava, with a noise like a giant leper in his asthmatic 
agony. Joe heard it, and laughed a little, and then 
grew silent, and finally said he wanted to leave the 
place—he hated it; he loved Lahaina dearly: how 
was everybody in Lahaina?—a question he had 
asked me hourly since my arrival. 

When night came I asked Joe to sing, as usual; 
so he gathered his mates about him, and they sang 
the songs I liked best. The voices rang, sweeter 


CHARLES WARREN STODDARD. 353 

than ever, up from the group of singers congre¬ 
gated a few rods off, in the darkness; and while 
they sang, my horse was saddled, and I quietly 
bade adieu to my dear friends the keepers, and, 
mounting, walked the horse slowly up the grass- 
grown road. I shall never see little Joe again, 
with his pitiful face, growing gradually as dreadful 
as a cobra’s, and almost as fascinating in its hideous¬ 
ness. 1 waited, a little way off, in the darkness— 
waited and listened till the last song was ended, 
and I knew he would be looking for me, to say 
Good night . But he didn’t find me; and he will 
never again find me in this life, for I left him sit¬ 
ting in the dark door of his sepulchre,—sitting and 
singing in the mouth of his grave,—clothed all in 
death. 


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Lord in gold on side, gilt edges, net, 9 00 

No. 5. Full morocco, block-paneled sides, superbly gilt, gilt 
edges, net, 10 00 

LIFE OF OUR BLESSED LORD. His Life, Death, Resurrec¬ 
tion. izmo, imitation doth. o 30 

LIFE. POPULAR. OF ST. TERESA OF JESUS. By L Abbe 

Marie-Joseph. i2mo. net , o 75 

LIGUORI. ST. ALPHONSUS DE Complete Ascetical Works of. 
Centenary Edition. Edited by Rev. Eugene Grimm, C.SS.R. 
Price, per volume, net, 1 25 


Each book is complete in itself, and anv vcn-me will be sold separately. 


Volumes itou are now ready. 

Preparati >n for Death. 

Way of Salvation and of Per¬ 
fection. 

Great Means of Salvation and 
Perfection. 

Incarnation. Birth, and In¬ 
fancy of Christ. 

The Passion and Death of 
Christ. 

The Holy Eucharist. 

The Glories of Mar}*. 2 vols. 

Victories of the Martvrs. 


True Spouse of Christ, 2 vols. 
Dignity and Duties of the 
Priest. 

The Holy Mass. 

The Divine Office. 

Preaching. 

Abridged Sermons for all the 
Sundays. 

Miscellany. 

Letters. 4 vols. 

Letters and General Index. 
Life of St. Alphonses, 2 vols. 


STANDARD CATHOLIC BOOKS. 


LINKED LIVES. A novel. By Lady Gertrude Douglas. 
8vo, i 50 

LITTLE COMPLIMENTS OF THE SEASON. Simple Verses for 
Namedays, Birthdays, Christmas, New Year, and other festive 
and social occasions. By Eleanor C. Donnelly. i2mo, net, o 50 

LITTLE MANUAL OF ST. ANTHONY. Illustrated. 32mo, 
cloth, o 60 

LITTLE MANUAL OF THE SODALITY OF THE CHILD 
JESUS. 32mo, o 20 

LITTLE PICTORIAL LIVES OF THE SAINTS. With Reflec¬ 
tions for Every Day in the Year. Edited by John Gilmary 
Shea, LL.D. With nearly 400 illustrations. i2mo, cloth, ink 
and gold side, 1 00 

10 copies, 6.25; 25 copies, 15.00; 50 copies, 27.50; 100 copies, 50 00 

The book has received the approbation of the following prelates: Arch¬ 
bishop Kenrick, Archbishop Grace, Archbishop Hennessy, Archbishop 
Salpointe, Archbishop Ryan, Archbishop Gross, Archbishop Duhamel, Arch¬ 
bishop Kain, Archbishop O’Brien, Archbishop Katzer. Bishop McCloskey, 
Bishop Grandin, Bishop O’Hara, Bishop Mullen, Bishop Marty, Bishop Ryan, of 
Buffalo; Bishop Fink, Bishop Seidenbush, Bishop Moreau, Bishop Racine, 
Bishop Spalding, Bishop Vertin, Bishop Junger, Bishop Naughten, Bishop 
Richter, Bishop Rademacher, Bishop Cosgrove, Bishop Curtis, and Bishop 
Glorieux. 

LITTLE PRAYER BOOK OF THE SACRED HEART. Prayers 
and Practices of Blessed Margaret Mary. Sm. 321110, cloth, o 40 
Also in finer bindings. 

LITTLE SAINT OF NINE YEARS. From the French of Mgr. 
De Segur, by Mary McMahon. i6mo, o 50 

LIVES, SHORT, OF THE SAINTS; or, Our Birthday Bouquet. 
By Eleanor C. Donnelly. i6mo, 1 00 

LOURDES. Its Inhabitants, Its Pilgrims, Its Miracles. By R. F, 
Clarke, S.J. i6mo, illustrated, o 75 

LUTHER’S OWN STATEMENTS Concerning his Teachings and 
its Results. By Henry O’Connor, S.J. i2mo, paper, 015 

MANIFESTATION OF CONSCIENCE. Confessions and Com¬ 
munions in Religious Communities. By Rev. Pie de Langogne, 
O.M.Cap. 32mo, net , o 50 

MANUAL OF THE HOLY FAMILY. Prayers and Instructions 
for Catholic Parents. 32mo, cloth, o 60 

Also in finer bindings. 

MANUAL OF INDULGENCED PRAYERS. A Complete Prayer 
Book. Arranged and disposed for daily use by Rev. Bonaven- 
ture Hammer, O.S.F. Small 32mo, cloth, o 40 

Also in finer bindings. 

MARCELLA GRACE. A novel. By Rosa Mulholland. With 
illustrations after original drawings. i2mo, 125 

MARRIAGE. By Very Rev. P^re Monsabre, O.P. From the 
French, by M. Hopper. i2mo, net , 1 00 


STANDARD CATHOLIC BOOKS. 


o 


MARRIAGE, Popular Instructions On. By Very Rev. F. Girardey, 
C.SS.R. 32mo, paper, 0.25; per 100, 12.50; cloth, 0.35; 

per 100, 21 00 

The instructions treat of the great dignity of matrimony, its indissolubility, 
the obstacles to it, the evils of mixed marriage, the manner of getting married, 
and the duties it imposes on the married between each other and in reference 
to their offspring. 

MEANS OF GRACE, THE. A Complete Exposition of the Seven 
Sacraments, of the Sacramentals, and of Prayer, with a Com¬ 
prehensive Explanation of the “ Lord’s Prayer” and the “ Hail 
Mary.” By Rev. Richard Brennan, LL.D. With 180 full-page 
and other illustrations. 8vo, cloth, 2.50; gilt edges, 3.00; Library 
edition, half levant, 3 50 

“The best book for family use out.”—B ishop Mullen. 

“ A work worthy of unstinted praise and heartiest commendation. 1 ’—Bishop 
Ryan, of Buffalo. 

"The wealth of matter, the admirable arrangement, and the simplicity of 
language of this work will make it a valuable addition to the household library.” 
—Bishop Bradley. 

MEDITATIONS (BAXTER) for Every Day in the Year. By Rev. 
Roger Baxter, S.J. Republished by Rev. P. Neale, S.J. 
Small i2mo, net, 1 25 

MEDITATIONS (HAMON’S) FOR ALL THE DAYS OF THE 
YEAR. For the use of Priests, Religious, and the Laity. By 
Rev. M. Hamon, SS., Pastor of St. Sulpice, Paris. From the 
French, by Mrs. Anne R. Bennett-Gladstone. With Alphabetic 
Index. 5 vols., i6mo, cloth, gilt top, each with a Steel Engrav¬ 
ing, net , 5 00 

“ The five handsome volumes will form a very useful addition to the 
devotional library of every ecclesiastic.”—His Eminence Cardinal Logue. 

“ Hamon’s doctrine is the unadulterated word of God, presented with unc¬ 
tion, exquisite taste, and freed from that exaggerated and sickly sentimentalism 
which disgusts when it does not mislead.”— Most Rev P. L. Chapelle, D.D. 

" We are using them daily, and are delighted with them.”— Mother M. 
Blanche, Mother House Sisters of Charity, Mt. St. Joseph, O. 

“ Having examined the ‘Meditations ’ by M. Hamon, SS., we are pleased to 
recommend them not only as useful and practicable for religious, but also for 
those who in the world desire by means of mental prayer to advance in the 
spiritual life.”— Sisters of St. Joseph, Flushing, L. I. 

MEDITATIONS (PERINALDO) on the Sufferings of Jesus Christ. 
From the Italian of Rev. Francis da Perinaldo, O.S.F. 
i2mo, net, o 75 

MEDITATIONS (VERCRUYSSE), for Every Day in the Year, on 

the Life of Our Lord Jesus Christ. By the Rev. Father Bruno 
Vercruysse, S.J. 2 vols., b 4 00 

MEDITATIONS ON THE PASSION OF OUR LORD. By a 
Passionist Father. 321110, o 40 

MISTRESS OF NOVICES, The, Instructed in her Duties. From 
the French of the Abb£ Leguay, by Rev. Ignatius Sisk. i2mo, 
cloth, net, o 75 

MOMENTS BEFORE THE TABERNACLE. By Rev. Matthew 
Russell, S.J. 241110, net , o 40 


STANDARD CATHOLIC BOOKS . 


MONK’S PARDON. A Historical Romance of the Time of Philip 
IV. of Spain. By Raoul de N avery. i2mo, i 25 

MONTH OF THE DEAD. 32mo, o 75 

MONTH OF MAY. From the French of Father Debussi, S.J., by 
Ella McMahon. 32100, o 50 


MONTH, NEW, OF MARY, St. Francis de Sales. 32010, o 40 


MONTH, NEW, OF THE SACRED HEART, St. Francis de 
Sales. 32010, o 40 

MONTH, NEW, OF ST. JOSEPH, St. Francis de Sales. 32010, o 40 

MONTH, NEW, OF THE HOLY ANGELS, St. Francis de Sales. 
32010, o 40 


MR. BILLY BUTTONS. A novel. By Walter Lecky. 12010, 1 25 

MULLER, REV. MICHAEL, C.SS.R. God the Teacher of 
Mankiod. A plain, comprehensive Explanation of Christian 
Doctrine. 9 vols., crown 8vo. Per set, net, 9 50 

The Church and Her Enemies. net , 1 10 

The Apostles’ Creed. net , 1 10 

The First and Greatest Commandment. net , 1 40 

Explanation of the Commandments, continued. Precepts of the 
Church. net, 1 10 

Dignity, Authority, and Duties of Parents, Ecclesiastical and 


Civil Powers. Their Enemies. 
Grace and the Sacraments. 

Holy Mass. 

Eucharist and Penance. 
Sacramentals—Prayer, etc. 


net, 
net , 
net, 
net, 
net, 


40 

25 

25 

10 


- Familiar Explanation of Catholic Doctrine. 12010, 1 00 

- The Prodigal Son ; or, The Sinner’s Return to God. 

Bvo, net , 1 00 

- The Devotion of the Holy Rosary and the Five Scapulars. 

8vo, net , o 75 

- The Catholic Priesthood. 2 vols., 8vo, net , 3 00 

MY FIRST COMMUNION: The Happiest Day of My Life. 
Brennan. i6mo, illustrated, o 75 


NAMES THAT LIVE IN CATHOLIC HEARTS. Cardinal 
Ximenes—Michael Angelo—Samuel de Champlain—Archbishop 
Plunkett—Charles Carroll—Henry Larochejacquelein—Simon 
de Montfort. By Anna T. Sadlier. i2mo, 1 00 


NATALIE NARISCHKIN, Sister of Charity of St. Vincent of Paul. 
By Lady G. Fullerton. i2mo, net , o 75 

NEW TESTAMENT, THE. 32mo. Limp cloth, net , 0.20 ; levant, 
net , 1.00 ; French calf, red edges, net , 1 60 






STANDARD CATHOLIC BOOKS . 


n 


OFFICE, COMPLETE, OF HOLY WEEK, according to the 
Roman Missal and Breviary, in Latin and English. New 
edition, revised and enlarged. 241110, cloth, 0.50 ; cloth, limp, 
gilt edges, 1 00 

Also in finer bindings. 

O’GRADY, ELEANOR. Aids to Correct and Effective Elocution. 
i2mo, 1 25 

- Select Recitations for Schools and Academies. i2mo, 1 00 

- Readings and Recitations for Juniors. i6mo, net , o 50 

- Elocution Class. A Simplification of the Laws and Prin¬ 
ciples of Expression. i6mo, tiet , o 50 

ON CHRISTIAN ART. By Edith Healy. i6mo, o 50 

ON THE ROAD TO ROME, and How Two Brothers Got There. 
By William Richards. 16010, net , o 75 

ONE AND THIRTY DAYS WITH BLESSED MARGARET 
MARY. 32mo, flexible cloth, o 25 

ONE ANGEL MORE IN HEAVEN. With Letters of Condo¬ 
lence by St. Francis de Sales and others. White mar., o 50 

OUR BIRTHDAY BOUQUET. Culled from the Shrines of Saints 
and the Gardens of Poets. By E. C. Donnelly. i6mo, 1 00 

OUR LADY OF GOOD COUNSEL IN GENAZZANO. By 
Anne R. Bennett, nee Gladstone. 32mo, o 75 

OUR OWN WILL, and How to Detect it in Our Actions. By the 
Rev. John Allen, D.D. i6mo, net , o 75 

OUR YOUNG FOLKS’ LIBRARY. 10 volumes. i2mo. Each, 
o 50 ; per set, 3 00 

OUTLAW OF CAMARGUE, THE. A novel. By A. De Lamothe. 

i2mo, 1 25 

OUTLINES OF DOGMATIC THEOLOGY. By Rev. Sylvester 
J. Hunter, S.J. 3 vols., i2mo, net , 4 50 

PARADISE ON EARTH OPENED TO ALL ; or, A Religious 
Vocation the Surest Way in Life. 321110, net , o 40 

PEARLS FROM FABER. Selected and arranged by Marion J. 

Brunowe. 32mo, o 50 

PETRONILLA, and other Stories. By E. C. Donnelly. i2mo, 1 00 

PHILOSOPHY, ENGLISH MANUALS OF CATHOLIC. 

Logic. By Richard F. Clarke, S.J. i2mo, net , 1 25 

First Principles of Knowledge. By John Rickaby, S.J. 

i2mo, net, 1 25 

Moral Philosophy (Ethics and Natural Law). By Joseph 
Rickaby, S.J. i2mo, net , 1 25 

Natural Theology. By Bernard Boedder, S.J. 12100, net, 1 50 

Psychology. By Michael Maher, S.J. 12010, net , 1 50 

Geoeral Metaphysics. By John Rickaby, S.J. i2mo, net , 1 25 

A Manual of Political Economy. By C. S. Dev as, Esq., M.A. 
12100, net , 1 50 





12 


STANDARD CATHOLIC BOOKS, 


PICTORIAL LIVES OF THE SAINTS. With Reflections for 
Every Day in the Year. Edited by John Gilmary Shea, LL.D. 
50th Thousand. 8vo, 2 00 

5 copies, 6.65 ; 10 copies, 12.50 ; 25 copies, 27.50 ; 50 copies, 50 00 

PRAYER-BOOK FOR LENT. Meditations and Prayers for Lent. 
32020, cloth, o 50 

Also in finer bindings. 

PRAXIS SYNODALIS. Manuale Synodi Diocesanae ac Provin- 
cialis Celebrandae. i2mo, net , o 60 

PRIEST IN THE PULPIT, THE. A Manual of Homiletics and 
Catechetics. Adapted from the German of Rev. I. Schuech, 
O.S.B., by Rev. B. Luebbermann. Svo, net, 1 50 

PRIMER FOR CONVERTS, A. By Rev. J. T. Durward. 32010, 
flexible cloth, o 25 

PRINCIPLES OF ANTHROPOLOGY AND BIOLOGY. By Rev. 
Thomas Hughes, S.J. i6mo, net , o 75 

REASONABLENESS OF CATHOLIC CEREMONIES AND 
PRACTICES. By Rev. J. J. Burer. i2mo, flexible cloth, o 35 

RELIGIOUS STATE, THE. With a Short Treatise on Vocation 
to the Priesthood. By St. Alphonsus de Liguori. 321Q0, o 50 

REMINISCENCES OF RT. REV. EDGAR P. WADHAMS, D.D., 
First Bishop of Ogdensburg. By Rev. C. A. Walworth. 
i2mo, illustrated, net , 1 00 

RIGHTS OF OUR LITTLE ONES ; or, First Principles on Edu¬ 
cation in Catechetical Form. By Rev. James Conway, S.J. 
32mo, paper, 0.15 ; per 100, 9.00 ; cloth, 0.25 ; per 100, 15 00 

ROSARY, THE MOST HOLY, in Thirty-one Meditations, Prayers, 
and Examples. By Rev. Eugene Grimm, C.SS.R. 32100, *0 50 

RUSSO, N. t S.J.—De Philosophia Morali Praelectiones in Collegio 
Georgiopolitano Soc. Jes. Anno 1S89-90 Habitae, a Patre 
Nicolao Russo. Editio altera. Svo, half leather, net , 2 00 

ST. CHANTAL AND THE FOUNDATION OF THE VISITA¬ 
TION. By Monseigneur Bougaud. 2 vols., 8vo, net , 4 00 

ST. JOSEPH, THE ADVOCATE OF HOPELESS CASES. 
From the French of Rev. Father Huguet. 24100, 1 00 

SACRAMENTALS OF THE HOLY CATHOLIC CHURCH, 
THE. By Rev. A. A. Lambing, LL.D. Large Edition, 
i2mo, net, 1 25 

Popular Edition, illustrated, 24100. 

Paper, 0.25; 25 copies, 4.25; 50 copies, 7.50; 100 copies, 12 50 
Cloth, 0.50; 25 copies, 8.50; 50 copies, 15.00; 100 copies, 25 00 

“Am glad you have issued so practical a work, in a shape in which it ought 
to reach every Catholic family.”— Cardinal Satolli, Delegate Apostolic. 


STANDARD CATHOLIC BOOKS. 


13 


SACRED HEART, BOOKS ON THE. 

Devotions to the Sacred Heart for the First Friday of Every 
Month. By P. Huguet. 32mo, o 40 

213. Imitation Levant, limp, gilt centre, round corners, edges 
red under gold, 1 35 

Imitation of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. By Rev. F. Arnoudt, 
S.J. From the Latin by Rev. J. M. Fastre, S.J. i6mo, 
cloth, 1 25 

Month of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. From the French of 

Rev. Father Huguet. 32010, o 75 

New Month of the Sacred Heart, St. Francis de Sales. 32mo, o 40 

One and Thirty Days with Blessed Margaret Mary. From 
the French by a Visitandine of Baltimore. 32mo, flexible 
cloth, o 25 

Pearls from the Casket of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. A Col¬ 
lection of the Letters, Maxims, and Practices of the Blessed 
Margaret Mary Alacoque. Edited by Eleanor C. Donnelly. 
32010, o 50 

Month of the Sacred Heart for the Young Christian. By 
Brother Philippe. From the French by E. A. Mulligan. 
32010, o 50 

Sacred Heart Studied in the Sacred Scriptures. By Rev. H. 

Saintrain, C.SS.R. 8vo, net , 2 00 

Revelations of the Sacred Heart to Blessed Margaret Mary ; 
and the History of her Life. By Monseigneur Bougaud. 
8vo, net , 1 50 

Six Sermons on Devotion to the Sacred Heart of Jesus. From 
the German of Rev. Dr. E. Bierbaum, by Ella McMahon. 
i6mo, net , o 60 

Year of the Sacred Heart. Drawn from the works of P£re de 
la Colombi£re, of Blessed Margaret Mary, and of others. 
32mo, o 50 

SAINTS, THE NEW, OF 1888. By Rev. Francis Goldie, S.J., 
and Rev. Father Scola, S.J. i6mo, illustrated, o 50 

SECRET OF SANCTITY, THE. According to St. Francis de 
Sales and Father Crasset, S.J. i2mo, net , 1 00 

SERAPHIC GUIDE. A Manual for the Members of the Third 
Order of St. Francis. o 60 

Roan, red edges, o 75 

The same in German at the same prices. 

SERMONS, HUNOLT. See under Hunolt. 

SERMONS ON THE BLESSED VIRGIN. By Very Rev. D. I. 
McDermott. i6mo, net , 0 75 

SERMONS for the Sundays and Chief Festivals of the Ecclesiastical 
Year. With Two Courses of Lenten Sermons, and a Triduum 
for the Forty Hours. By Rev. Julius Pottgeisser, S.J. From 
the German by Rev. James Conway, S.J. 2 vols., 8vo, net , 2 50 


STANDARD CATHOLIC BOOKS. 


14 

SERMONS, SHORT, FOR LOW MASSES. A complete, brief 
course of instruction on Christian Doctrine. By Rev. F. X. 
Schouppe, S.J. i2mo, ?iet , i 25 

SERMONS, SIX, on Devotion to the Sacred Heart of Jesus. From 
the German of Rev. Dr. E. Bierbaum, by Ella McMahon, 
i6mo, net , o 60 

SHORT CONFERENCES ON THE LITTLE OFFICE OF THE 
IMMACULATE CONCEPTION. By Very Rev. Joseph 
Rainer. With Prayers. 32mo, o 50 

SHORT STORIES ON CHRISTIAN DOCTRINE: A Collection 
of Examples illustrating the Catechism. From the French by 
Mary McMahon. i2mo, illustrated, net , o 75 

SMITH, Rev. S. B., D.D. Elements of Ecclesiastical Law. 

Vol. I. Ecclesiastical Persons. 8vo, net , 2 50 

Vol. II. Ecclesiastical Trials. 8vo, net , 2 50 

Vol. III. Ecclesiastical Punishments. 8vo, net , 2 50 

- Compendium Juris Canonici, ad usum Cleri et Seminariorum 

hujus regionis accommodatum. 8vo, net , 2 00 

- The Marriage Process in the United States. 8vo, net, 2 50 

SODALISTS’ VADE MECUM. A Manual, Prayer Book, and 
Hymnal. 32mo, cloth, o 50 

Also in finer bindings. 

SOUVENIR OF THE NOVITIATE. From the French by Rev. 
Edward I. Taylor. 32mo, ?iet , o 60 

SPIRITUAL CRUMBS FOR HUNGRY LITTLE SOULS. To 
which are added Stories from the Bible. By Mary E. Rich¬ 
ardson. i6mo, o 50 

STORIES FOR FIRST COMMUNICANTS, for the Time before 
and after First Communion. By Rev. J. A. Keller, D.D. 
32mo, o 50 

STORY OF JESUS SIMPLY TOLD FOR THE YOUNG. By 
Rosa Mulholland. 241110, illustrated, o 50 

SURE WAY TO A HAPPY MARRIAGE. A Book of Instructions 
for those Betrothed and for Married People. From the German 
by Rev. Edward I. Taylor. Paper, 0.25; per 100, 12.50; 
cloth, 0.35; per 100, 21 00 

TALES AND LEGENDS OF THE MIDDLE AGES. From the 
Spanish of F. DeP. Capella. By Henry Wilson. i6mo, o 75 

THINK WELL ON’T; or, Reflections on the Great Truths of the 
Christian Religion. By the Right Rev. R. Challoner, D.D. 
32mo, flexible cloth, o 20 

THOUGHT FROM ST. ALPHONSUS, for Every Day of the Year. 
3 2m °, o 50 

THOUGHT FROM BENEDICTINE SAINTS. 32mo, o 50 




STANDARD CATHOLIC BOOKS. 


THOUGHT FROM DOMINICAN SAINTS. 321110, o 50 

THOUGHT FROM ST. FRANCIS ASSISI and his Saints. 

32mo, o 50 

THOUGHT FROM ST. IGNATIUS. 32mo, o 50 

THOUGHT FROM ST. TERESA. 3 2mo, o 50 

THOUGHT FROM ST. VINCENT DE PAUL. 32mo, o 50 

TRUE SPOUSE OF CHRIST. By St. Alphonsus Liguori. 

2 vols., i2mo, net , 2.50 ; 1 vol., i2mo, 1 50 

TRUTHS OF SALVATION. By Rev. J. Pergmayr, S.J. From 
the German by a Father of the same Society. i6mo, net , o 75 
TWELVE VIRTUES, THE, of a Good Teacher. For Mothers, 
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VISIT TO EUROPE AND THE HOLY LAND. By Rev. H. F. 

Fairbanks. i2mo, illustrated, 1 50 

VISITS TO THE MOST HOLY SACRAMENT and to the Blessed 
Virgin Mary. For Every Day of the Month. By St. Alphonsus 
de Liguori. Edited by Rev. Eugene Grimm. 32mo, o 50 


WARD, REV. THOMAS F. Fifty-two Instructions on the Prin¬ 
cipal Truths of Our Holy Religion. i2mo, net , o 75 

- Thirty-two Instructions for the Month of May and for the 

Feasts of the Blessed Virgin. i2mo, net , o 75 

- Month of May at Mary’s Altar. i2mo, net , o 75 

WAY OF INTERIOR PEACE. By Rev. Father De Lehen, 
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i2mo, net , 1 25 

WENINGER’S SERMONS. 

Original Short and Practical Sermons for Every Sunday of the 
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Sermons for Every Feast. 8vo, net , 2 00 

Conferences specially addressed to Married and Unmarried Men. 
8vo, net , 2 00 

WHAT CATHOLICS HAVE DONE FOR SCIENCE, with 
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WOMEN OF CATHOLICITY: Margaret O’Carroll—Isabella of 

Castile—Margaret Roper—Marie de 1’Incarnation—Margaret 
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i2mo, 1 00 

WORDS OF JESUS CHRIST DURING HIS PASSION, explained 
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Flexible cloth, o 25 

WORDS OF WISDOM. A Concordance of the Sapiential Books. 

i2mo, net , 1 25 

ZEAL IN THE WORK OF THE MINISTRY; or, The Means by 
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CATHOLIC NOVELS BY AMERICAN AUTHORS. 


MR. BILLY BUTTONS. 

By Walter Lecky. *i2mo, cloth, special design on cover, $1.25. 

Walter Lecky has in a few years reached an enviable place 
among the Catholic writers of this country. This book, of which 
the scene is laid in a little town of the Adirondack Mountains, 
abounds in vivid bits of description, suggestive of Thoreau in 
their appreciation of nature, in dramatic and touching situations, 
and the quaint characters of Billy Buttons, Cagy, Weeks, etc., 
are sketched to the life. Nothing quite like this has been given 
to the public before, and we feel sure Mr. Billy Buttons will be 
heartily welcomed. 

THE VOCATION OF EDWARD CONWAY. 

By Maurice F. Egan. i2tno, cloth, special design on cover, $1.25. 

This is a novel of modern American life. The scene is laid 
in a pleasant colony of cultivated people, on the banks of the 
Hudson, not far from West Point, and the military element enters 
into the story. The tone is Catholic, but not controversial, and 
the hits at the fads of the day are softened by a sense of humor, 
evidently the result of keen observation, modified by wide 
experience. A competent critic pronounces this the best novel 
Mr. Egan has yet written. 

A WOMAN OF FORTUNE. 

By Christian Reid. i2mo, cloth, special design on cover, $1.25. 

Christian Reid is the most prolific of all the Catholic novelists. 
Over a score of novels have come from her pen, and in all of them 
“the author has wrought with care, and with a good ethical and 
artistic purpose, and these are essential needs in the building up 
of an American literature.” The heroine of the present story is 
a Southern girl of rare beauty and wealth, and of a very 
independent and perhaps wilful disposition. The scene is laid 
in this country and various cities of Europe. 

PASSING SHADOWS. 

By Anthony Yorke. i2tno, cloth, special design on cover, $1.25. 

Novels the scenes of which are laid in New York have an 
interest for people in all parts of the country. ‘ 1 Passing Shadows ” 
is a New York story, the scene of which is laid, for the most part, 
in the lower east side of the city. It is a simple tale of love in a 
neighborhood that has not been much exploited by Catholic 
writers. It is a reflection of Catholic life, and for this reason 
will be acceptable to many. 


BENZIGER BROTHERS, New York, Cincinnati, Chicago. 





















































































































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